Belle of the Boulevard
by CailinNollaig
Summary: He thinks he's the only one who notices after her strong and powerful entrance – so full of confidence and allure – that she sits alone in a secluded booth until closing time, drinking herself into a coma./CANON.
1. i: She Moves Like She Don't Care

**i. She moves like she don't care. Smooth as silk, cool as air.**

It's a night like any other. He's sitting in a dingy bar in the less frequented (by upstanding citizens) area of town, downing drinks like they're water whilst contemplating his own sad life. It never used to be like this, he used to be together. He used to be determined, ambitious and he just _knew. _That's what he misses the most, the knowing. Lately, Draco hasn't been sure which way is right or left.

He's been alternating between this bar, and the few others in the accompanying streets the past three weeks. Each night, the hours seem to tick by at an agonising pace as he waits to return to work. He hasn't been home in a long time – that may be due to the fact that he doesn't really have one.

Yes, Draco Malfoy, the infallible, is homeless. Draco Malfoy, the rich bastard that owns the first Wizarding electronic company, has no bed to return to at night. He's been sleeping in his office from about 6-10, and then he rises to do some work. His secretary is suspicious, he knows that, but it's none of her business and in reality, Draco couldn't give a shit about what she thinks.

With a glance around, he see's that the bars a little more full than usual. Given it's a Friday, he knows that that's natural. Since he's been coming here, the only time the population of the place rises above four is on the weekend. Tonight, due to the promise of cheap drinks and other promotional offers, there's a few students in the corner and more than a couple of men at the bar. There's a few women scattered in the booths as well. He doesn't understand why any self-respecting person would come here, being honest. The bar itself is falling apart, he having splint himself on the wood four times just tonight. The lights in the far right corner flicker ominously – and irritably – throughout the evenings and nights while the remaining ones exude only enough light to throw a shadow on whatever lies beneath.

The glasses are so old and disgusting that he inconspicuously performs a quick spell on them each time, only to make himself feel a little better. He is still Draco Malfoy, after all. Even if he has nothing of true value left.

That said, he'd never give up his fortune and would most likely just put himself in the ground if he was poor to top all of this off. He may look like a collected wreck sitting in that bar, on weekdays being the only civilised looking person there, but his life and head is a mess. Draco's not sure how he let everything get so far away from him, how he allowed things to spiral out of control. At this point in his thoughts, Draco decides to cut himself a little slack. He didn't _see _anything spiral out of control. That's the problem, she says. She says he's disconnected. Distant. Selfish.

How could she be so selfish?

Draco's train of thought his called to a half when a string of wolf-whistles echo through the bar. The quiet ones are glancing towards the door appreciatively, and he turns so his back his no longer to the person. Recognition hits him immediately, because she's constantly here on the weekends. He studies her as she approaches the bar.

Her head his held high, and her body language doesn't convey discomfort or annoyance in any way. Her shoulders are back, strut in place and her smile is coy. Her dress is inappropriate by all means. (He supposes that's why she gets so much attention.) She flickers her eyes towards the leering men and offers them a wink and suggestive smile, but then turns to the bar man. She's quiet in her order making him unable to hear what she asks for – he wants to know out of curiosity. Obviously.

Her dark hair falls temporarily over her face, however it's not left there long as she flicks it back. The shine on it almost leads him to disbelief because as he has mentioned, the lighting is so awful. How could her hair produce such a shine? She glances at him, Draco being only two seats away and the middle seat empty, but he doesn't react. She's only a temptress, and has no interest in absolutely anyone in the bar. (She's not even stunningly pretty, she just has that _je ne sais quoi.) _ She's one of _those _women who come to places like this for an ego boost.

He wishes he could say that with more confidence. The reason being, he's seen her four times here now. From the looks of things, he ponders as she leaves the bar with one drink (scotch) and goes to sit in the 'VIP' area, he's the only one that notices. Notices that after her strong and powerful entrance – so full of confidence and allure – she sits alone in a secluded booth until closing time, drinking herself into a coma.

~*~*~  
><strong>AN**:Alright ladies and gentlemen, my foray back into the world of Potter! Yayy! I've been dying to write this for ages now and just decided today 'oh, to hell with it' and got writing. I've no chaptered plan, and no further writing, but I figure for once I'll just got with the flow. I know where I want it to go, and I know the details. Don't own HP or "Maria" by Blondie, which the chapter title is from.  
>Also, it may seem like the woman character here is a Mary-Sue. Rest assured, she's not. As far as I'm aware, you have to tick <em>all<em> boxes to be one of those and we've only seen her looks! In addition to that, Draco did mention she's not like Jessica Alba pretty, she's just incredibly confident and dresses a little suggestively. I've also three ongoing stories now, but I've set time aside for writing (It's strange being organised! Haha) so I'll update as much as possible. I considered making this into a Draco/Hermione, but I'd like to stick with an OC for now. However, I may do a D/Hr version in the future if there is a severe lack of attention here. Anyway, thanks for reading folks! Hope you enjoyed, and I'll try update again this weekend. Definitely today or tomorrow actually. Reviews are _loved!_  
>CN<p> 


	2. ii: Rusty Halo

**ii. Now there's no time to shine my rusty halo.**

His curiosity had reached its pique, and now Draco is losing interest in her again. She's just another woman; no different or unique characteristic jumping out at him. Of course, the exception being that she drinks far more than her liver should be able to handle, but that's not his problem. The only thing he cares for is the comfort he receives from knowing he's not the most miserable person here.

He waves over the barman and asks for a firewhiskey this time, and the older man retrieves it without a sound. As they exchange the good for money, the barman eyes him inquisitively. Draco raises his eyebrow, as if to ask him what on earth he's staring at. The man is much older than he, with deeply engrained lines around his mouth and forehead. Not so heavily around his eyes, and he wonders if the man is a sombre and serious one. (Perhaps like him.) A thick mustache occupies the area above his mouth, and Draco briefly wonders why someone would want something that looks like a dead rat on their face. Granted, he doubts there's many people this barman tries to woo in anyway.

"Yes?" Seeing that they're still sizing each other up, Draco decides to just bite the bullet and talk to the man. God, did he hate socialising with common people.

"You been in here a lot." He shrugs, grabbing a tea towel and wiping down the spot in front of the blond.

"Keen observation there, detective."

"No need to be rude, I was only seein' what your problem is."

"What _isn't _my problem is the problem. Look, I wouldn't expect you to understand. We're not turning this into a cliché scene of the barman offering his sympathetic ear and me finally pouring out all my worries to someone and getting emotional. So why don't you go make sure one of the vermin at the bar aren't dead, and I'll return to my drink."

He blinks. Once, twice. Still not moving, and Draco rolls his eyes. This guy is thick. No wonder the bar is such a shithole, he muses silently. He looks down at his drink then and takes a sip, noting that the barman has moved along and sends out a thank you but unsure as to why. After all, he could have happily continued ignoring him as Draco does with many others.

Two drinks later, and he's glancing around. It's considerably emptier than earlier but he's not certain on what time it is. The young crowd have long moved on, having gotten their cheap drink, and most of the other respectable people have also left. He begins to wonder if he even falls into that bracket anymore – he does come here all the time. This bar, and the other in the nearby streets. Still, what does being respectable even mean? He knows it when he see's it, but he can't even define it. Does its meaning effectively end his membership to that elite group? Draco concedes that he cares a little about the answer, but a whole lot less than he did a few years ago. Or even a year ago.

"We're closin'." The old man mutters, his friendly demeanour no longer present; it almost makes Draco want to smile. However, instead of doing so, he looks around the place.

"There's still people here. Why aren't you kicking them out?" They've never had problems like this before, so Draco reckons that the barman is just pissed because he didn't want to half his problems with him.

"There's two others. And sure, he's helping her." The barman nods over to the couple in the corner, and then turns to go into the back for something. Draco focuses in on the pair, and abruptly decides that he is _not _helping her.

The semi-intriguing woman from earlier is only half-conscious, falling to the side everytime the man tries to pull her up. In Draco's plainest terms, the man is fat, ugly and treading a dangerous territory. Perhaps he wouldn't be ugly if he wasn't fat as Draco tends to immediately write off someone bigger than him. (He hates the thought of being overpowered. He's a fatist.)

As the guy tries to pull her on top of him, his hand travelling towards the hem of her short, red dress, Draco frowns. On top of all the other wonderful tidbits on his personal resume, sitting by and watching this can't be one of them. She's clearly out of her mind, and in no position to do anything that man has on his mind. Bracing himself, and pondering on when he became so chivalrous, he approaches the table with a casual confidence.

"Excuse me, are you aware you have your hands on my wife?" He bites out, cool as ice.

He shoves her back into the corner of the chair, where she slumps over on her side. Her raven hair does fall over her face this time, and no one is brushing it back for her. Now in closer quarters with him, he notices that the man is around the same age as him. Jet black, shaggy hair touches his shoulders and bright blue eyes with no apparent emotion make up his prominent features. His shoulders are broad, but his stomach fat and his overall appearance shabby. There's an air of creepy attached to his appearance, and Draco quickly classes him with the rest of the vermin that frequent the bar.

"Your wife?" His face twists in amusement, but his eyes remain empty.

"Did I stutter?" Draco's beginning to regret the encounter as they both draw to full height, and he has a good three inches on the blond.

"Smart ass, eh? Well then, I'll definitely enjoy this one."

Draco ignores him and moves towards her, deftly throwing her over his shoulder – because after all, he didn't actually give a shit about her – and tossing the other man a nonchalant glance. "All the best."

He seems to have hit a nerve as he turns to walk away from the old fatty, but the guy suddenly lurches forward to either grab Draco or her, he's not so sure. Just inches before the creep as reached his target, Draco thinks of his house.

_Poof. _He's gone.

* * *

><p>As soon as he opens his eyes, Draco curses himself. And the world, and his luck, and his stupid chivalry, and morality. Nothing good comes of being good, he's learned. Every time he does the right thing, it seems to back fire on him. He always had good fortune when being an asshole, that's just the way his life worked.<p>

Dropping the woman onto the ground, he rubs his hands over his face and sighs. Fortunately for him, he didn't often stray to muggle bars and he was perfectly within his rights to apparate that time. He tries not to make habits of that sort of thing though, because when he wants to escape the society he lives in, Draco goes to a muggle bar and attempts to blend in. He's long lost his abhorrence of the muggle race, and instead finds them quite amusing to watch. (He never stopped being condescending, unfortunately.)

Picking up the hand of the woman, he's seconds away from apparating when the porch light of his house flickers on. He curses – loudly, this time. Of course that causes her to hear.

"Draco? Is that you?" The voice is hopeful, yet hesitant. He remembers that she lives alone and figures he must have scared her. It worries him that he's not sure if he cares or not. Looking up at the architectural masterpiece that used to be his house – with its vast and extensive gardens, wide and open balconies and pristine paint coats – and feels a wave of nostalgia wash over him.

Before he can contemplate this further, her voice rings out again. Except this time, she knows it's him, and her tone is shrill. "Draco! What in Merlin's name are you doing here? You're not staying here, I told you that before. I got the house – you gave me the house!"

He stands, dusting his trousers off and remains calm, "That was when I had thought our son would be here, Astoria. Now be a dear and go back to bed." She steps into the light of the porch, and he can see her better now. Draco stands at the end of the steps, his neck craning upwards to watch her.

She wraps her arms tightly around herself – to protect herself from the cold or him, he isn't sure. Her wand is in her right hand, and he remembers that she thought an intruder was on the grounds. She's donning a pale green night dress that reaches just below her knees – not flattering at all – and her hair is tied messily into a bobbin at the base of her neck. Her eyes are tired, and the bags under them are deeply engrained into her pale skin. Concern flickers in him for just a moment, but he pushes it away immediately.

"Stop being such an asshole." She spits, fire raising in her. Astoria's eyes fall onto the figure beside him then, and he knows a volcano is about to erupt. Her eyebrows arch angrily, her eyes turn accusatorily to him and her fists come to her sides, clenched. The wand still tightly, dangerously and forebodingly in her right hand. "You brought a _woman_ here!" Draco knows better than to answer her. "How dare you! Who do you think you are? You're a miscreant, Draco. Not fit to even grace these grounds, especially not with some … some… some _whore_ at your side!"

"Do tell me how you feel." He replies sarcastically, but just as Astoria thrusts her wand forward and opens her mouth, Draco grabs the woman's hand and apparates to his office. Safety has never felt so good.

(He'd never admit it aloud, but part of him is saddened at how he and Astoria unravelled. A civil conversation is beyond them now, far from their days of giddy love and stars in their eyes.)

* * *

><p>He isn't able to sleep, and so starts reviewing some sales figures and reports. His office is quite large, with a luxury couch sitting in the corner of the room and a rich cherry wood desk in the centre of the room. Behind him, windows glimpse out onto the streets below and sometimes he people watches for hours out those windows. Other times, he watches the sunrise or sunset from his plush chair.<p>

The only light he has on is the small one on his desk, focusing solely on making his papers readable and writing possible. He's been doing this for about two hours now, and it's coming up to five o'clock. The stranger he saved and then all but introduced to his ex-wife is sleeping on his couch, he still hasn't slept yet, and he has a meeting in four hours. Draco wonders when his life became so pathetic.

A stirring on the couch draws his attention, the woman groaning and stretching as she wakes. He had thought she would be out for a few more hours, and had been slightly perturbed by it. After much thinking, he had come to the conclusion that if she were still out by the time people were arriving for work, he would put her in some hotel. Yes, he's aware that he's playing citizen of the year.

However, all these plans are fruitless as she rouses. He puts down his pen, and watches carefully as her eyes blearily open and close. Draco's waiting for the horror when she doesn't know where she is, and then turns and see's him. Her hair is matted and awful looking, while her make-up is smeared. She looks a bit of a mess.

Slowly, he see's it dawn on her that she doesn't recognise the area. Instead of the expected horror though, she nods in approval at the surroundings before jumping when she see's him. He raises a brow in her direction, and she raises both in return.

"I don't believe I know you, or where I am." She's not sheepish as he expected, and she's not as grateful as she should be. He envisioned her waking up and throwing herself at his feet, thanking him profusely and begging him to not think too ill of her. Except instead, she sits there casual as you like, speaking as if this were a daily occurrence. On reflection, Draco realises that he has no idea if it is or not for her.

"You're at Malini Enterprises. My name is Draco… and you are?"

She stands, fixing her dress in a surprisingly graceful fashion, "Right. Um, you can call me Grace."

"I can call you? So that's not your name?"

"Is that really important?" She questions him, a flicker of the desperation in his eyes that he expected. "I'm very grateful for whatever you did last night, because I know nothing _happened _by how I feel.."

"Yes, I just saved you from being raped. As you do." He says nonchalantly.

She pauses, shock entering her expression for just a moment, "Well, thank you. What was your name again?"

"You don't recognise me? Draco."

She tilts her head to the side, studying him. As she does this, Grace walks towards him and sits with her legs crossed on the chair in front of his desk. She almost manages to look professional, had her face not been a wreck and her dress not been but a belt. He remembers he had asked her a question when she replies, "No, am I supposed to?"

"Well, if you don't live under a rock. But who am I to judge habitats. Draco Malfoy, though I must say the pleasure has been all yours." He extends his hand, a bit gingerly, and she accepts it daintily.

"Grace Office."

"Excuse me?" He wonders if she has mental problems.

"I—I couldn't think of any other name quick." Now she looks sheepish. At this point, he finds her infuriatingly difficult to figure out and decides that he doesn't have the time for this carry on today – or any other day – and knows it's time to kick her out. At least now she can walk out herself.

"Right, I get thinking can be difficult. I've a lot of work to do now, so if you wouldn't mind leaving?"

Grace appears a little taken aback, "You don't seem the type to help a damsel in distress." Her facial expression afterwards portrays that she hadn't meant to say that out loud, but he merely waves her off. She apologises anyway before looking around. Her gaze is calm at first, but as the seconds tick by, it becomes panicked.

Draco rolls his eyes, "The door is to the right of the couch."

She doesn't even blink, "No – no, my bag.. Do you have it? Please say you have it, I don't know what I'll do.. I need … do you have it?" Grace looks quite lost, and he pities her, so Draco entertains her requests some more. (He never does this kind of thing.)

"No, I don't." The gentle tone to his voice strikes him, "Maybe it's at the bar?" Feeling extremely charitable for reasons he can't fathom, he opens his drawer and takes out his card. "Look, if you can't find it at the bar, give this number a call. It has to be here somewhere otherwise."

She accepts the card and says nothing for a moment, simply standing there looking at it. Draco returns to his reports, but after several minutes he becomes aware that she's still standing in the same place and sighs. He's beginning to feel frustrated.

"Have a good day, goodbye now."

She jumps, then nods. Dressed in the clothes from the night before, her hair and make-up in a disarray, she steps out of his office and then out of the building. Draco, unable to help himself, glances out his window and see's her doing the walk of shame down the street. In the background, the sun is beginning to rise and he turns his attention to that instead.

Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

><p>Hope you enjoyed that! I enjoyed writing it, I have to say. I like writing this Draco :) As always, I'd love to know what the thoughts are! Thanks a million for reviews, and the more I get, the faster I'll update.. That's not blackmail or a threat, it's just generally what happens. I'm going to try and get the newest chapter out by Wednesday. Meaning, either mon, tues or wed.<br>Disclaimer: Don't own HP or "Rusty Halo" by the Script.  
>Thanks for reading, reviews would be fantastic!<br>CN


	3. iii: Your Prison

**iii: Your prison is walking through this world all alone.**

The week moved along swiftly following his bizarre altercation with the strange woman from his bar. Safe to say, there were no more incidents quite like that one. However, this didn't prevent Draco from breaking pattern so tonight is the first night he's been completely free of alcohol in over a week. It's not exactly his choice either as against his better judgement, he agreed to dinner with his parents tonight.

The joy he feels is so subconscious, one would think he is unhappy about it.

Draco takes slow, yet purposeful, steps out of his office and closes the door behind him. He's taking his time because he needs to conserve energy if he has to talk to his parents all night. Sometimes, Draco wishes he was one of the lucky ones. Goyle's parents kicked the bucket years ago, leaving him a substantial fortunate and wonderful estate. (He's lying, he'd be a more than broken if his parents died. It's easier to pretend he doesn't care.) Lightly pondering his parents mortality, he begins the familiar route towards the fireplace to floo himself far away. Draco's about to grab a fistful of powder, when a hand clamps down on his shoulder.

"Where you off to, sulky?"

"Stop calling me that. Could you grow up a little, please?" Blaise only shrugs a shoulder in response, but it's refreshing to Draco and he can't help but enjoy his friends presence more because of it. He knows no one else that is as carefree, light-hearted and cheerful (and generally immature) as Blaise, but this is immensely welcomed. He doesn't need any more morose, cynical or fearful people in his life. Blaise has aged quite fortunately, with but a few wrinkles etched around his eyes and very light ones on his forehead. His dark skin hides age annoyingly well while his posture betrays no signs of his body breaking down. Draco has few wrinkles himself, but this is due to his use of a fantastic potion recently developed.

"I've heard people can grow up…" Blaise trails off mockingly, "You call sulking around all day mature? Then I'll gladly opt out."

"Do you have anything of interest to say?" He asks finally, hand hovering over the bowl of powder once more. Blaise has a way of prolonging what should be the simplest of conversations, and it is one characteristic of his that grates with Draco. Draco prefers to be straight and blunt, not winding and rambling. To his chagrin, Blaise loves the sound of his own voice. (People have often said that about him, too.)

"Apologies, am I boring you?" It's said in a tone that tells anyone he's not the slightest bit regretful. "The latest reports are in, you should take a look. There's been a wave of reports over faulty products and I'm not sure we can keep up with replacing them much longer. There has to be another solution, but what?"

"I think we should revise the idea of a magical-research department. Yes, short-term we'll have to shell out to get the labour and equipment but once they succeed.."

Blaise looks to be thinking deeply, then comes back with, "I wonder if muggles have to deal with this type of shit. We should see how they handle it."

"Get someone on it." Draco nods, "I have to go, I'm having dinner with Lucius and Narcissa."

"Send them my best wishes; they always did like me. Ad wants to talk to Narcissa about some upcoming ball, so we'll pop over during the week. Make sure to be there, I plan on having one of my debates with Lucius," his friend winks then. Draco restrains the reaction to roll his eyes. Sometimes, he wishes Blaise would act like a normal person. He doesn't seem to grasp social norms and how people don't make certain jokes once they hit a certain age, don't mock particular things once they've grown to a particular point. (Sometimes, he wishes he was like Blaise.)

It's a miracle anyone ever tied down his friend, and even more of a miracle that Blaise found someone willing to try. He married only ten years ago, and has not an heir to his name. Draco could never imagine the man as a father anyway, he has always been more of an uncle figure. He's certainly been an uncle figure to his son, and a good one at that. He settled down with a French girl by the name of Adelaide; the blonde bombshell with deep brown eyes, perfect English with a tilt of the signature French accent and money to burn. He had the fortune of knowing she wasn't after his money from the start, as she had her own. She's a passionate woman with a lot of ideas and opinions on just about everything. Of course, she works in the Ministry. She transferred after they married, and settled in quickly. Unfortunately, through a series of parties and balls, she managed to hit it off with Draco's mother – and his ex-wife – so that they could all dine together. It wasn't his idea of fun, let's put it that way. (Despite it, Draco wishes they were coming for dinner tonight.)

Without further ado, Draco bids his friend adieu and steps into the fireplace. One, clear shout of _Malfoy Manor_ and he's transported into his childhood home. Perhaps this is his home, what he will always consider his home. It takes a minute for Draco to realise what a stupid sentiment that is – this house has never been his home. It's draped in Slytherin, and not the kind he remembers with fondness. He can still recall the screams of torture, he still hears the agonising pleads for death during the night. This place will never be home again for him.

His mother rushes into the hallway to greet him, a serene smile on her face. She's remained as youthful as ever, with blemish-free skin and eyes that still hold a regal element reflective of young aristocrats. Narcissa Malfoy is the definition of a weak woman, allowing herself to be ruled by her husband and hiding her affection for her son for far too long. Or rather, she was the definition of a weak woman, in Draco's books. Of course, he never thought that at the time, but in reflection he does. She changed after the war – cared less about what others thought (Lucius) and more about what her son needed. He's never been closer to his mother than in the years after the war, and is thankful for her change more than he'll ever say.

She kisses both his cheeks lightly, the same peppered kiss that greets him everytime. Smiling softly, Narcissa places a hand to his cheek, "You look awfully pale, Draco. Are you alright?"

"Fine, mother." He manages a smile in return, and doesn't know why it's so difficult to do it sincerely. Smiling shouldn't be a chore. (He's afraid to ponder what has become of him.)

There's concern lurking in her glance still, but she doesn't push the topic – she knows it won't yield results. "If you say so, darling. Come, dinner is just about ready and the elves have prepared your favourite. It's been so long since you joined us; I want to hear every detail of the past few weeks. I saw you in the paper, you know." She's rambling as they walk into the dining room, the harsh light from the gaudy chandeliers blinding him momentarily. Draco blinks several times to adjust before sitting down in his usual seat. His mother continues talking, but it's nonsensical and general updates on her life that he's already aware of from phonecalls. He had somehow managed to convince his parents to install a phone in the house, but his mother is the only one who uses it. This surprises very few people.

"Mother, is Father joining us?" He cuts her off mid-speech so that she freezes, caught off-guard by the abrupt questioning.

Narcissa's ice-blue eyes flicker to the door. They return to his gaze, appearing weary, "I'm not sure. He's been working on a project with that odd fellow the past few days, I've not seen heads nor tails of him since."

"Odd fellow?"

"Yes, yes, you wouldn't know him." She's busying herself with straightening the cutlery and it frustrates him as she won't give him her full attention. Draco grabs her hands which forces her to raise her eyes. "I don't know who he is, Draco. I'm not getting involved in all of that again."

"Neither am I. I refuse to associate with someone involved in the dark arts again."

"This isn't associating with him." Her tone is stern. He knows she'll be angry if he leaves, but he can't get sucked into that world again – he simply can't. It has taken Draco many years to rid his name of the stain his father bestowed upon it. Even the stigma he attached to it thanks to his sixth year adventures. Yet, he doesn't want to upset his mother, so he nods.

"I know, that's why I'll dine with you, but I won't speak to him if he's involved in something again." Narcissa doesn't respond. The silence as they await their food is not entirely unpleasant, especially since when the food arrives, his mother begins nattering again. She probes him about his life, and he tells her more than he tells most. Surprising himself, Draco recounts the story of the strange woman from the bar. Narcissa doesn't know the extent of his bar visits, but is aware that he frequents them. She makes all sorts of exclamations about the woman, most of which he finds he can't quite agree with, nor disagree. Draco knows nothing about her he comes to realise. Which shouldn't be surprising, seeing as they only spent one night together, and she unconscious for most of it. Somehow, it startles him to see how little he knows of her. Why that startles him is also baffling.

As their plates are collected by the elves, who Draco eyes the clothing of (bloody Granger), Narcissa hands him his coat and becomes quite once more. He knows she's waiting to say something, causing him to take his time getting ready to leave. He wants to hear what she has to say, because unlike the rest of the night, it's going to be somewhat important.

"He's not right, Draco," her voice is soft, almost questioning, too. She sounds confused, "He's taken a turn the other way, after having done so well for so long. I think visiting Azkaban has triggered some sort of relapse."

Draco does what he does best then. He brushes it off. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, he's just seeing what his life could have been like. Don't fret too much, visit Gina Parkinson or something." He kisses her cheek – not unlike she did to him upon arrival – and sets off.

Narcissa says no more on the subject, but follows him out, "I do occasionally enjoy her company, when she's not being a trollop."

He can't help the chuckle that escapes him, "Goodnight, Mother. Thank you for the dinner."

She nods, "Of course. It was lovely seeing you. I've been speaking to Scorpius more than you lately!"

Before he can question this, she pushes a some powder into his hand and ushers him into the fireplace. He could have stopped and asked, could have questioned or probed, but he finds that he doesn't want to. Draco is sick of hearing how Scorpius loves everyone.

(But him, that is.)

* * *

><p><em>My son – <em>No, that isn't right. Draco crosses out the introduction to the letter for the third time before realising he can't send a page so badly presented and promptly crumples the paper and flicks it into the bin. Sighing, he attempts to pinpoint what it is exactly that he wants to say. It seems his previous efforts have failed woefully, and he can't help but long for a simpler time.

There was a day when Draco would return home from work to a house. This house in particular was filled with warmth, laughter and – to be horribly sentimental and sappy – a lovely mixture of love and joy. Every evening, a blond mop of hair would run to him with open arms. These little arms would be thrown around him so tightly, and with such ferocity, that there was no doubt of him being missed. The arms were skinny and scrawny, therefore having the effect of being incredibly uncomfortable after several seconds but Draco never pushed him away.

Grey eyes, near identical to his own, would then glance up and sparkle with an innocence and pure elation that can never truly be recounted accurately. His smile would stretch easily across his face, causing those eyes to light up, and a goofy (often toothless) grin preceded the ramblings of the day.

This is how Draco wanted to remember his relationship with his son; this is what he wants it to still be like today. The utter regret and sadness he feels that this is not possible causes him to retire for the night.

With an intense sense of despair accompanied by a long exhale, Draco makes his way to the couch and collapses onto it. Sleep is welcomed like an old friend with a glass of scotch.

It's the first time he's slept soundly without alcohol in months – and he has no idea why.

* * *

><p>Ok, so I am extremely sorry about the long wait and then short chapter. I gave up on writing again for a bit, but I'm going to try be steady from now on. Although when my college exams come up it could go one of two ways: either I cop on, study and leave FF for a few weeks, or I procrastinate and write more than ever. Who knows which. Also, I think it's obvious that no one should ever believe me when I promise to update on a certain day or week - I'm crap, I know. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please leave a review.<br>CN

Disclaimer: I do not own HP or "Desperado" by the Eagles.


	4. iv:Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness

**iv: You can be addicted to a certain kind of sadness Like resignation to the end, always the end.**

He seems to be consistently stuck sitting behind his desk. It's his life, and he has no qualms in admitting that, but it doesn't take away the harshness of that truth. He hasn't begun to fully comprehend the shambolic state of his life yet, but he feels that he's edging on the verge of that realisation. He dreads it.

Draco's life is now surrounded by figures, facts, meetings, connections – and none of these are the social or fun kind. His life is dominated by work and seriousness (unless Blaise is with him) while everyone around him seems to have a good thing going. Part of him hates feeling sorry for himself, but another part can't help but think he deserves it. It seems, however, the no one else quite has the same opinion. There's still that tint of resentment, that flash of anger and tilt of the eyebrows that he receives upon mentioning his second name. Sure, he has come a long way from his days of smuggling people through wardrobes, but Draco can't help other people along, too. He can't make others forget his wrongdoings, and hey, maybe he doesn't deserve a clean sheet. Maybe he deserves to be stigmatised – and more than he is now.

After the war, he had spent a year travelling. It had been a good idea in his mind; to escape the Wizarding world and allow it to built itself again without him. He wanted to see the world, to explore other societies, languages and even food. It turned out that it was a good idea, because he 'found' himself of sorts on those travels. He grew into a person that could function in their society, who could provide something besides trouble. There wasn't much to tell truly, he returned home and shortly after met Astoria. He attempted to become an Auror, but was rejected because of his shady past. His reconnection with Blaise provided their new company. It wasn't long before he married Astoria – after that is a bit hazy. Everything meshed into one year in his mind, as it felt not a day had passed since they married.

(And yet.. somehow, it feels like they were never together.)

Draco's drawn from his thoughts as his secretary – who may be the most annoying being on the planet – sticks his head in, "Sir, there's a woman here to see you." The way he says 'woman' causes Draco's eyebrows to raise in question, and he puts his pen down.

It also annoys him that the man at his door thinks he has some sort of authority to judge him. Silly man. The thought of who this woman is hits him then which causes his thoughts to whirl. He prays to whoever that it's not Astoria, but reasons that Bobby (most annoying name he could give to the secretary) would have said that.

The mystery is ended when she walks in – he can't help but be surprised. He leans back in his chair, surveying her with questioning eyes. He doesn't know why she's here, and furthermore, he can't fathom why that stupid man admitted her into the office. He decides promptly that he doesn't want to deal with her today, and that she is wrong in coming here. Draco isn't a charitable person, and isn't going to hand her money, so he is about to tell her to beat it when she speaks.

"My name is Belle, okay? I'm a 37 year old woman from London. Now, can I please ask you some questions?"

Who the hell is this woman? His mind recognises her as the one he saved from the bar a few weeks ago. Yet, he wonders who the hell she thinks he is to demand answers from him. Moreover, why she thinks he has any answers for her. He barely knows her. Anger and irritation flare in him, as the former so rarely does these days (there are few things that he's passionate about) but this encounter is so unbelievably ridiculous – she's so unbelievably ridiculous – that he has to let the anger course. "Excuse me?" He tone is that cool, sharp quality that he is so familiar with.

Her resolve falters a bit here, and she stamps her foot rather pathetically, "You have my bag. Where is it? I've told you what you wanted to know, now—now give me my bag!"

"You're out of your mind. Leave before I have someone escort you, Elle."

"Belle." She corrects feebly, her expression defeated. The brazen, bold attitude she adopted when entering the room has fizzled out completely now. He looks at her properly; she's nothing like she was that night. The beauty and confidence is gone, the allure and magic disappeared. Her hair hangs limp in a ponytail, swaying an inch with every word she pushes out. Her eyes mostly remain on the floor, but that doesn't change the haggard appearance of her skin and the bags under her eyes. She's had a hard time since he saw her last. She's wearing a pair of shorts that leave little to be desired – literally, they're not attractive at all for a woman her age – while her top is tight, and a light blue that he would ordinarily associate with seven-year old girls. She finally speaks again. Her voice is hoarse and has a desperation to it that grasps his attention (desperation is no stranger to him). "I need that bag."

Draco resigns himself to the fact that no matter how much he may not want to, he has to help this woman. For some reason, it has fallen upon him to be a guardian saviour here. He doesn't know this woman; he doesn't know anything about her. Still, he's drawn to her in a way he can't describe. He's partly curious of the two personalities she seems to possess – the magical, gorgeous woman from the bar, and the insecure, frail wreck standing before him. He shrugs, standing from his seat, "I don't have your bag."

She rushes forward to his desk, barely touching it as she exclaims hastily, "I retraced my steps, asked around and I know – I _know _that I left it at your house! I was only half-conscious, it must have been where I dropped it. Please go back and check?" Belle leans forward slightly, exposing him to the soft curve of her breasts and the dulcet, smooth skin that lies there, "I'll do _anything._"

Draco jumps back, shaking his head, "I don't want that from you." He snorts derisively, "I certainly don't want _that_ from you – or anything else. Besides, you must be mistaken, for we never went to my house."

"I know I was drunk, but I thought…" she trails off, appearing confused, "I thought I saw a large, two story house. Breathtakingly beautiful with huge balconies." Belle is lost in this memory as she recalls the house, while she absently touches the ring on her left finger. He fails to notice this as Draco falls back into his chair.

His heart starts to beat faster, as it sinks at the same time. It suddenly feels as if he's sweating profusely – when in reality, there's not a bead of sweat to be found – and he wipes his hands off of each other. The only thought in his head, however, is repeated quite loudly and echoes in the large room.

"Oh shit." It's in his fucking ex-wife's house. "Oh_ shit."_

* * *

><p>So, a little bit quicker this time, but not great. I have the next chapter nearly finished, as it was part of this one, but I just felt this was too good a place to <em>not <em>leave off. Sorry it's so short, I seem to have a problem in that regard lately. Thank you so much for your reviews, I really appreciate it! Disclaimer: HP and "Somebody that I Used To Know" by Gotye are not mine.

CN


	5. v: Cruel Words and False Accusations

**v: The cruel words and the false accusations. The mean looks and the same old frustrations.**

Belle finally raises her eyes from the ceramic tile, giving him an apprehensive look. She still has all the intimidation of bunny rabbit, and a disposition that portrays someone constantly on the edge of their seat. Not out of excitement or anticipation though, but because they're too afraid of what will happen if they'll sit back and relax – yet, they're not fully comfortable sitting where they are either, and nervous about falling off. He tries with his might, but simply can't connect this woman to the one at the bar. They're two different people; they must be.

She tentatively touches his desk, "Could—could I have my bag please?"

He sighs, running his hand over his face. Through his fingers, Draco's eyes find Belle's face again. This woman causes nothing but trouble for him, honestly. He briefly wishes he wasn't such a kind and wonderful person, then returns to earth. Draco stands, "I suppose I haven't got much of a choice. I'm going to have to face it sooner or later."

"Face it, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Don't bother with the Mr. Malfoy, my name is Draco." (Mr. Malfoy sends a cold chill down his spine, while spreading dread within his stomach, because the only Mr. Malfoy he knows is someone he doesn't want to be likened to.) "You can't come with me." His tone is firm, causing him to be surprised when she doesn't flinch. He can't work out this weird and strange girl, and it irritates him. She comes barrelling into his life – _twice _– uninvited and can't even give him the common decency of being transparent.

"Okay." She's silent as he locks away the documents he was reading and retrieves his coat. "Why can't I come with you?"

The phone in his office rings intrusively upon their conversation. Swiftly, Draco presses the button on his intercom to question his secretary, "Who's on the line?"

"Your mother, sir."

Without giving a reply, Draco lets the phone ring out and turns to leave. "You can't come because this is my ex-wife's house, not mine. You can sit on that couch – and that couch alone – until I return. Hopefully, this will be a short visit."

Draco knows all too well that it won't be a short visit. Not only did he show up in the early hours of the morning with an intoxicated, scantily dressed woman at his side, but he also left behind a reminder of it. Astoria was probably thrilled with that – tellingly, this gives Draco some sick sort of satisfaction. He wants to hurt her like she did him. (He claims this, but in reality, Draco hates what they've become. He promised he'd never put his children through a broken or dysfunctional marriage – like his parents did to him.)

He almost knows how this will pan out. Astoria will call him some derogatory names, maybe throw a spell – or an object, she's fond of flinging those around – then tell him she never wants to see him again before finishing off with some comment on him as a father, or even better, how he's just _"so much like"_ his own father. Sometimes, there's even some cries of '_Look what you've done to my life', _which he finds the most amusing. He doesn't think Astoria realises how easy she had it following the divorce. Draco doesn't think he could have been kinder unless he gave her his company, which she would hate anyway. Most of all, he doesn't think she realises how little of their peers would have settled things how they did. He signed over nearly everything, without so much as a fighting word. Although, they fought – by god, did they fight.

Apparently, when you're young, all that arguing and fighting means _passion._ It means opposites attract and you care deeply about each other. However, when you get old, that _exact same _arguing nature in your relationship becomes a vice and a sign of how far apart you've grown. They never tell you that. It's all passion, until one day, when your wife is using sex purely for bargaining purposes, it's not passion anymore. That's for the youth, and it's silly to try and be what they were as teenagers.

(Draco disagrees with every word. He guesses that's one way in which they did grow apart. Astoria's opinions grew stranger, while his more modern and liberal. )

Even if it does occasionally make him angry to see how they broke down, it doesn't compare to the anger he feels at _himself._ This anger stems solely from the pain he's putting his son through. He can see the resentment, the hurt that Scorpius feels. Draco wants to scream at him, wants to shake the boy senseless, because doesn't he realise this is actually better? Having two parents who barely even acknowledge each other, who don't even care enough to fight, tore him apart as a child. Doesn't Scorpius know that he is just trying to save him the same fate?

Truthfully, he hadn't wanted the arguments leading to divorce to seep into daily life. He wanted Scorpius to believe that his parents were still friends – that he and Astoria loved each other, they just weren't in love anymore. It didn't work out that way though, and now he's too tired to try. (They sometimes manage to be friends, before everything comes crashing back. There are moments of civility, though.)

Part of him feels like trying with Scorpius is senseless anyway. Fruitless; a road leading nowhere.

With a start, Draco see's he's at his houses door. He'll never get used to be on the other side, being the stranger that has to knock. His knock is purposefully slow, but she'll know it's him from the moment she hears his steps. He has to admit, there is curiosity in his heart as to whether her initial greeting will be falsely cheerful, or downright nasty. His questions are answered when the woman gently prises the door open, looking radiant and a lot better than she did that night. Tilting her head, Astoria's expression turns quizzical. A second later and she's opening the door wider for him to come through.

She's donning navy robes, clinching at the waist and flowing delicately to the ground. Her hair is pinned back, and he manages to notice she's wearing make-up. Why does she look so nice? There's a smell of his favourite perfume, the one he always bought her, which causes suspicion to creep up on him. Is she dating someone? Draco isn't sure how he feels about that.

They're in the kitchen now, which he's not too concerned about. He's comfortable here, hence him making himself completely at home as he sits down at the island. His feet rest on the bottom of the chair beside him, and his eyes fall upon his ex. He assumes that she's expecting a long visit – much to his chagrin – because she turns to boil the kettle. "What are you doing here, Draco?"

"Shall I wait for the coffee and tea to begin?"

She shoots him a look, then returns to the kettle, "It's not for you. I have someone coming over."

Draco stands, coming to lean against the counter beside her. He bends his head close to hers, trying to catch her gaze, "A man?" It's none of his business, he knows that, but his insatiable curiosity is eating at him. Although, it's a bit of a stretch to say he's an insatiably curious person. Astoria looks up at him, stirring the coffee slowly as she debates her reply.

"It's honestly nothing to do with you."

He accepts this, because she is perfectly within her rights to say that. Draco's not going to pressure her, or beg for answers, or even go into some dramatic and unrealistic jealous rage. "Okay. If you want to talk about anything, I'm here though." The words surprise him, too.

She snorts. "You're here? Really? Because during the nights, when I'm alone in this huge, cold and empty manor, you're _not here._"

"Why are you doing this?" He asks, running a hand through his hair. They've been over this, through it and around it. There's no more to discuss, and for this reason, he can't understand why she's bringing it up.

"Because we're not together anymore," She says quietly, not meeting his eyes again. "And I'm scared of being alone."

He feels strange. Draco and Astoria haven't broached these topics in a long time; he had been under the impression that they were laid to rest. It's nearly a year. He isn't her confidante anymore, he's not someone who can save her and make the world seem like a better place. What's more, is that this is the first perfectly civil conversation they've had in a long time. Usually, it starts off civil – in this scenario, he comes into the kitchen then and says something accidentally insensitive ("Hope you're treating the house well. I worked hard for it.") which causes her to start a screaming match ("You're an insensitive jerk. Why did I ever marry you?"). Today, however, Astoria's not in the mood for this it seems, and neither is he, because so far he's been rather sensitive indeed to the situation.

Taking this all into account, he hasn't a bog of how to respond. "Well, we both just have to grow accustomed to it. It'll take time."

"I've a date in an hour." Comes rushing out. To compensate for this, she hands him the cup of coffee – despite saying it isn't for him – and takes a sip of her tea.

Draco nods slowly, startled by the lack of feeling he has towards those words. They elicit no anger, sadness or jealousy. It's at this point that their progress enters his mind. They're not in love. _This _saddens him, even if he has known it a long time. It wasn't fully real until this moment. "That's good."

Astoria nods, and he could be mistaken, but it seems like she lets out a sigh of relief then. It strikes him that none of this is his business. He definitely doesn't want to be speaking to her about his next conquest. He finally gathers his courage then, and braces himself for the response, "So, did you find a bag in the lawn?"

Her eyes flash, a dark look coming over her face. It's gone as quickly as it came though, leaving him puzzled. He never did understand his ex-wife, and he somehow assumes that he never will, now. "Yes, I did. I don't want to talk about that because it makes me _so_ angry, Draco." The last two words and spat out through gritted teeth. He's beginning to remember her mood swings.

Despite having a limited emotional range (or at least on show), he's starting to see what their interaction today has been all about. She felt some unreasonable and illogical burden of guilt because she's dating, causing her to temporarily ignore the 'bag situation'. He swallows heavily. Now that she knows there's no reason to be guilty, she hasn't got much reason to treat him nicely.

There's something one should know about Astoria – she's insane. At least in Draco's opinion. He often told her she was a manic-depressive, which would you believe, never did him any favours during their time together. She's selfish, not unlike him, and always puts her own needs ahead of anyone else's. Love is putting another's happiness before your own? That's never been the case for him, and he's ninety-nine percent sure he and Astoria were in love. In any case, she's not going to listen to any explanation he has for her. Astoria hears what she wants to. He's the villain, she's the damsel in distress – the hero is lost somewhere along the way.

He knows all this, is even prepared for the reaction he predicted earlier now that the niceties are out of the way. Part of him thinks she forgot about her bag till now, being so self-centred that all she thought about was her date. Still, knowing all this, her next words knocks his pulse out of beat, "I know we used to be something, that we're still parents together and _friends_ on some level – maybe – but I'm going to the police."

His immediate thoughts are voiced aloud, "_Excuse me?_ What the hell are you on, woman? I didn't do anything!"

"Besides trespassing on my property at night –"

"They'll laugh you out of the station if that's your report." He comments, mind working rapidly to catch up with her crazy thoughts.

"I said besides, didn't I? Anyway, of course I was going to go through the skanks bag." Astoria puts down her mug of tea before placing her palms on the counter, inhaling deeply. After far too long of this dramatic scene, right before he's about to point this out, she turns to him, "But _drugs, _Draco?" To be fair, she appears to be as shocked as him. Puzzled, confused, baffled. He's pretty sure their expressions are the same.

"Wh-what?"

She lets out a humourless laugh, shaking her head in disappointment. "Don't play dumb. I'm not in the mood for it. You have a son, you know. Are you _trying t_o hurt him more?" He's so used to her throwing parental jabs his way that Draco doesn't react, but this is more due to the fact that he's speechless. For some reason, he can't wrap his head around the fact that the woman he rescued was an addict.

He doesn't know why it's so hard to believe – she was a mess that night. She had been so well-groomed though, wearing such well-made clothes (what little she wore) and donning expensive jewellery. He knows expensive when he see's it, and all of her outfit was _expensive._ As this runs through his mind, Astoria continues, "He's had enough pain in his life, Draco. I can't be the mother that allows their child to go through that kind of pain, all because of some stupid theory to do with needing both parents. Bottom line is that he doesn't need both parents. And god, how did things get so bad for you that you resorted to that? I could have helped a little. Sent you somewhere, I mean, not help you personally. Look, I'm going to report this, I've no choice. As a consequence, I'll be going to court to have you removed from Scorpiu—"

"I didn't take the drugs, Astoria," He tells her firmly, annoyance lacing his tone. He's beyond annoyed at her, actually. For her to think he is an addict – does she think him so filthy? So reckless? So indifferent to his _son?_ He doesn't even want to explain himself to her. The fact that she's threatening to get a restraining order against his son forces him to, however. "Do I look like I carry a handbag? It was the girls, you silly woman. And no, I didn't have sex with her, she's not my 'whore' or 'skank'. I saved her from being attacked – so there you go. Get off your high horse and dramatics now."

She doesn't have a chance to reply, because as soon as Draco glances at his watch, he's speaking again, "Your date will be here soon. Where's the bag?"

Unable to say any more, she responds simply, "I disposed of it, of course."

"You were going to go to the police without evidence?" He asks, raising a brow. "Your bluff has been called. Good day Astoria, enjoy your date."

* * *

><p>He can't lie to himself, or to anyone else – Draco is <em>fuming. <em>Again, he's not used to this feeling of rage anymore, but it always seems to accompany his arguments with Astoria. Lately, those arguments only leave him feeling weary, but today he's angry. Firstly, because of Astoria. How could she think he would take drugs? It offends him that she thinks so little of him, that she could possibly conceive the thought that he would throw away the semblance of a relationship he has with his son.

Secondly, _Belle _and her whole baggage sends waves of ire in his system. How dare she? She comes into his life, armed with narcotics, leaving them at his house, then _demands _them back? How dare she. It's then that he decides she's going to be the one to suffer his wrath, because it's obviously not going to be Astoria.

Yes, he's also infuriated with himself – because he didn't have to help the stupid woman, he didn't have to suddenly be all noble and stupid, because everything in this situation is _stupid. _He's not a charitable, helpful or empathetic person, so why he chose that woman and that night of all times to be those things boggles his mind.

There's a stomp in his step as he breezes into the office, leaving a gaggle of surprised and confused people in his wake. Ignoring his secretary who opens his mouth to speak, Draco wrenches open the doors of his office and slams them behind him. The show has officially started, folks.

Belle jumps up from her place on the couch, having not moved since he left. He couldn't care less if she did anyway, because there's not much of interest in here. Besides his whole life. Again, nothing of much interest to a common druggie. He shoots her his filthiest look, recalling the sneer he was so fond of as a teenager. It comes back to him easily, "You can go find another bag. I'm not going to help you with your addiction, you common and senseless woman."

Another woman should respond to such an insult, but she only appears despondent, "You have to give it back! That—that cost me a lot of money, you know. It's not just run-of-the-mill weed. Do you know what you're doing?"

Draco shakes his head, all of a sudden sick of the sight of her. "Get out of my office."

She stands there watching as he returns to his desk. She stares until he begins to feel it – but studiously ignores it – then tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Belle then straightens out her clothes in a useless manner, attempting to look more sophisticated or _something _– Draco's not quite sure. He makes a gesture, as if to say, what are you waiting for?

She takes this prompt and leaves. But just as she has her hand on the door knob, her voice calls out to him, "Lucius would have appreciated the gravity in this situation." Draco pauses mid-sentence in his report, the grip on his pen becoming tighter. Again today, his mind has to work at a mile a minute to decipher this irritating woman. He remembers something then, and this intrigues – or annoys? – him more than anything.

She claimed she didn't know him, nor the Malfoy name.

* * *

><p>Every chapter of this fic seems to end with a dramatic sentence... but I do love the dramatics. I've not much to say in this AN, except thank you for reading and please review :) Disclaimer: I do not own HP or "This Aint a Love Song" by Scouting for Girls.<br>CN.


	6. vi: Let Me At The Truth

**vi: Now let me at the truth, which will refresh my broken mind.**

It only takes Draco a moment to make up his mind, if even. Hastily, he makes sure he has his wand – which he does, as always – grabs his jacket, and follows Belle stealthily out the double doors. He spots her quickly, darting out of the office with a determination in her step. He wonders if she's bipolar or crazy, or _something. _

Following her isn't a problem for him, as Draco grew up around Death Eaters. Stealth was necessary in those times, and he more than once had to creep around his house, struggling to remain unnoticed by the older, crueller men. Being Lucius Malfoy's son didn't make you immune to the others threats, jibes, and occasionally, violence as a child. Draco can still remember his mother's tears at night as she tended to the yellow, curious colour of his latest marks. The elf did most of the work, but his mother stood by nonetheless. Taking all of this into account, it's needless to say that he quickly developed a stealthy step.

This Belle character doesn't seem the most astute or shrewd of people in any case, which also causes him to feel perfectly fine with following her. She'll never notice.

Draco dodges through the crowds of people as they weave through Diagon Alley, wondering where on earth she's heading towards. It doesn't take long for him to recognise the next area though; it's where he spent many days as a child. The chill in the air, the bite in the atmosphere and the hostile environment is all still the same. Knockturn Alley is no normal man or woman's favourite place.

He knows immediately what she's here for then, as if it should have been clear all along. Draco watches with mild abhorrence as she turns into an alleyway. Feeling his curiosity still piquing, he allows himself to cast a disillusionment charm – yes, he could have done that earlier, but where is the fun in that? - and follows her into the dark sideway. There's a little light peaking in from behind the nearest building, but it doesn't shed much.

Her steps are distinctly cautious as she approaches a man there. She shirks back when he takes a step forward, shaking in the shadow of his large and burly frame. Draco frowns; he recognises the man. Their voices are mumbled, but when the unknown man draws himself to his full height and inadvertently into the trickle of sun, Draco knows who he is – kind of. It's the attacker from the bar.

Rage bubbles within him. Draco clenches his fists tightly, trying to contain the anger running around his body and lighting up all his nerves. He wants to knock the man out – either with a fist or a spell – and shout mercilessly at the stupid woman in front of him. A rather unwelcome gust of wind causes Draco to stumble a little, and this reminds him where he is. As foolishness replaces the fury from moments ago, Draco wonders what on earth he's doing here. His life has been reduced to such meaningless routine, to such menial tasks, to such lack of direction that he's following some stranger as she buys drugs.

He tries not to feel angry with himself, but it's in vain. Draco wants to kick the nearest rubbish cans over, he wants to hex everyone in sight and most of all, he wants to drown himself in a glass of whiskey.

With all of this in mind, he counts to ten and relaxes himself. He long ago learned how to control his anger. Draco takes several steps back then, resolving to let go of this issue. He's letting go of Belle 'The Mystery', he's letting go of the curiosity and he's letting go of that fleeting nobility.

It doesn't matter that he's undeniably drawn to this woman, or that he finds her contradictions mesmerising and her vulnerability somewhat attractive; he's done.

On that thought, Draco turns on his heel, and leaves.

* * *

><p>Weeks pass – precisely sixteen days – without a glitch since Draco left that laneway. He goes to work every day, eats in some upscale restaurant, and then swallows all of his thoughts up in alcohol at night. Occasionally, Draco will visit his mother, or send a letter to his son that won't receive a reply. He once knocked over to Astoria, a little tipsy, to ask her about the bag. It's not like he thinks about that often.<p>

Except he does. Belle crosses his mind multiple times a day; did he do the right thing? What if she died? Why does he feel so responsible for her? Why she lied to him about his father plays over in his head, as well as every conversation and interaction they've ever had. He saw her briefly last week, stumbling out of the bar he met her in, but Draco paid no heed. He couldn't. Right? These kind of issues plague his thoughts, his dreams and every facet of his life. It's ruining him; he's beginning to think that he needs help, and that's not something Draco often concedes to.

Draco's musings are cut short as someone throws a paper down on his desk. "Fancy that!" He'd recognise that voice anywhere, but glances up to see the man. He hasn't seen Blaise in a few weeks because he was away on business, but still isn't pleased to see him. Blaise is too happy all of the time, to full of the joys of the world for Draco to tolerate him at the moment. He was better able to tolerate him after the divorce than he is now, for some reason.

Blaise wiggles his eyebrows, "You gotta' look at it. I want to see your face." Without prompt, he takes the seat in front of Draco's desk and props his feet up on the chair across from it. Draco sends him a scathing look that does little to dissuade the man.

Knowing that Blaise won't leave till he reads the newspaper, Draco sighs mournfully and picks it up. He blinks once. Twice. Three times, and even rubs his eyes. It says the same thing though.

_Romance and Weasleys and Malfoys, oh my!_

At first, he thinks that Blaise has played some sort of joke on him – he tells Blaise as much. As he swears on his wife's life that he didn't do this, Draco comes to realise that this is no mockery. He gives a startled look of pure disbelief to Blaise, who nods in understanding, "I know, right? You'd want to read the article." Words flood Draco's vision and mind, telling a tale of a long-standing romance, weekends spent in Hogsmeade and a revolutionary love. His immediate thoughts aren't ones of outrage or any emotion akin to it, but of unadulterated shock. He doesn't understand how this could have been going on for so long, under his nose, without his knowledge. Had he really grown so out of touch with his son?

His problem is nothing to do with the Weasley name in it, but the fact that he went unaware for so long. He wonders briefly if Astoria knows, but dismisses this thought as he doesn't truly care. He cares that _he _didn't know, and that's the heart of it. Many will claim that he hates the Weasleys, which isn't far from the truth, but Draco can't find it in him to be bothered by it. Out of all the Weasley's, he at least picked the best of the bunch. Granger's daughter is bound to be intelligent, however grudgingly he wants to admit that, while perhaps possessing the blessing of being less bossy given her ridiculous father.

Again, it's not the Weasley part that troubles him. Blaise's voice reminds him of his presence then, "Did you know about this? I'm appalled and offended you didn't tell me! As your best mate, I thought these kind of things – perfectly good gossip – was always spread between us. I mean, why not tell me? I think it's hilarious!"

Draco rolls his eyes, "Maybe that's why I wouldn't have told you. It doesn't matter anyway, because I didn't know." He avoids Blaise's gaze here, staring down at the newspaper intently. He almost thinks the words are going to arrange themselves at any minute, but they don't.

"You didn't know?" He sounds as surprised as Draco feels.

Even with that, he's still annoyed at the response. Through gritted teeth, Draco replies, "I didn't know."

Blaise winces, "Ouch. That's got to hurt."

"Thank you for your wonderful insight as always, Blaise. You know where the door is."

"Don't be such a Pansy," He laughs then, "Get it? _Pansy_." Blaise makes a show of shivering then, saying the words he always does after that old joke, "She was a horror."

Draco isn't paying attention to his friend though, for he's still processing this news. How is he supposed to react? Obviously, he has to acknowledge it at some point. Draco is surprised none of the vultures down at the Daily Prophet have attempted to contact him yet, and absently makes a note to tell his secretary to bin all requests. He doesn't have time to entertain their ludicrous assumptions and prejudices. In somewhat of a daze, he voices his thoughts out loud, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Blaise stands, sighing as he does it. "Contact your son, obviously. I'm planning on sending him a ridiculously funny howler. Some mocking, jesting, maybe some singing; general fun and banter." He pauses and adds thoughtfully, "However, I suggest you take a different approach. On a different note, my meeting in Ireland went fantastically well. I really think this international approach is what we need."

He replies wearily, "We're not ready to go global, Blaise. We have to sort out our kinks first."

"We need to before someone else does. Look, I'm not doing this now – you contact your son, I'll –" The phone rings, and Draco sends it a suspicious glance. Blaise simply salutes him at this point before walking out the door, knowing that the blond had plenty to attend to.

Hestitating several times, Draco finally pushes the intercom button, "Who is it?"

His secretary, without a beat, tells him that it's his mother and pushes the call through. Draco resigns himself to listening to his mother's harping for the next half hour, all the while battling this and trying to think of an excuse for the fifteen minute mark. "Mother."

He can hear her bristle, "Well thank you for such a darling greeting, Draco. You know how to make a mother feel appreciated."

"I apologise for not feeling particularly up for jovial greetings this morning," He tells her dryly, wishing the conversation would move a bit faster. The sooner he contacts his son, the better in his eyes. Then again, maybe some reflection on the situation would do the whole scenario good.

"I assume you saw the paper then. Isn't it dreadful? Our own flesh and blood, with a Weasley!"

"Now Mother, calm down. Scorpius is entitled to be with whoever he wants, and he did pick the best from a bad lot. Besides, this is what the Malfoy name needs, you know," He says this gently, waiting as the words settle around them. She doesn't reply, evidently thinking his words over. Although these points are not the most important for Draco, he knows well enough that they are for his parents. God knows what Astoria will tell hers, but Draco plans on convincing them that this is a good move politically for the Malfoy name. Their reputation is building itself slowly with his business, and now, Scorpius is ensuring that they're not branded strictly prejudiced. He allows another beat to pass, and then, "He shouldn't be restricted by our pasts. I want to give him what you couldn't give me; freedom."

He knows that was somewhat below the belt, but he can't help it because it's exactly how it feels. Part of him is proud of Scorpius for overcoming all the bias and hatred towards their family to fall in love with someone traditionally on 'the other side'. He's bridging the gap, he's one of the good ones in society working to bring the two sides together. He shouldn't be branded with Draco's past, or the pasts of his grandparents and further back; Scorpius Malfoy should have a clean slate, to do with as he wishes.

Narcissa Malfoy breaks the silence eventually. "You know I wanted better for you." The say over the phone what they can't say face-to-face, he recognises. Neither of them are capable of this conversation – calmly – while in the presence of one another. Of course, Draco has voiced his vehemence and resentment towards his parents in anger in his younger days, particularly in his twenties right after the war, but it had all become water under the bridge. She gives him a lengthy exhale, "You're right though. As much as I am loathe to admit, Scorpius should be free to date as he wishes. I would just like someone from a less common family, but no matter. If I recall, Potters friends were the best out of that bunch, as you said. She must be intelligent." She adds.

Draco nods, even if she can't see him, as he had the same thinking. "Exactly. So if you have no more to say on the matter, Mother, I'm afraid I have to g—"

"No." Her tone is firm and clear, which makes him pause. She doesn't often use this tone with him, although he's heard it a few times with his father. "I have to talk to you about your father, he's—"

"I don't want to hear it." His voice leaves no room for argument; he's done. The lack of response on the other end leaves him feeling slightly guilty, so Draco relents , "I'll visit tomorrow. I'll listen to whatever you have to say, but I can't promise I'll help. Goodbye, Mother. Take care."

"You too, darling. See you tomorrow." Her goodbye is gentle, but he can tell she's hurt. There's no masking the dejected tone in her voice, nor the heaviness in her words. Draco needs to banish these bearings though; he has to stop worrying about his parents, because it doesn't serve him well at all.

Trying to expel all the irritating thoughts that have been plaguing him lately, Draco sets aside time to write to his son. He's going to make this one count, because he wants a reply this time.

* * *

><p><em>My son,<em>

_I wanted to start this letter off with a cordial greeting. I wanted to inquire as to your health, your classes and your general daily happenings. However, this seems to fall short of your expectations in all of my other letters as I receive no reply._

_Far from it, I do not want this letter to be one of chastising or disapproval. I cannot say that your anger or indifference to me has not affected me, as it has more bearings on me than you realise. I don't understand why you feel so strongly against me, as I've tried to do all I could to make your life as easy and seamless for you as possible. Forgive me if I have failed you Scorpius, but you gave me no indication that I was doing anything wrong._

_More than anything else, I am disappointed. Not only in you, but myself. I have obviously not instilled the values in you that I thought I had, nor have I given you the trust in me I thought I did. I am disappointed because you do not acknowledge anything I say to you, regardless of the topic. Furthermore, I'm disappointed that you neglected to tell me about your recent romance. Did you think me to be that bigoted still?_

_I have no qualms with Rose Weasley, nor do I take issue against the Weasley family. If I have given you that impression as I raised you, then it has been interpreted wrongly. I wish you could see more than what you do._

_I'm afraid that I can't reach any further, Scorpius. I need you to meet me halfway. I need to know what I did wrong to even attempt to reconcile it. Neither of us are perfect, and despite how hard it may be for you to acknowledge it, we are more alike than you realise yet._

_I wait for your reply, Scorpius, and I do expect one. I demand a reply as your father; if anything, I have definitely taught you to have respect for your parents._

_I hope you are doing well. _

_Your father,_

_Draco Malfoy._

* * *

><p>AN: Hey all! Thanks for your reviews so far. The genre of this story makes it quite unpopular, so I really appreciate those following it! Not that I wouldn't if I had a bigger following, but you get me, right? haha... Anyways, sorry for the long wait. Exams blah blah blah. I have now planned out the story - now that I know what direction I want it going in - so hopefully I'll finish it quickly. I'm eager to move onto something else now. Anyway, tell me what you think of this! Disclaimer: Don't own HP or "The Cave" by Mumford & Sons.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!  
>CN.<p> 


	7. vii: You've Gone Too Far This Time

**vii: But you, you've gone too far this time. You have neither reason nor rhyme, with which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine.**

His entire body feels heavy as he enters his old home, full of delightfully horrid memories and repressed sentiments. As strange as it sounds though, he's becoming more accustomed to the place with each visit. Yes, this old house harbours much of the source of his issues, but it also made him into the person he is today. While some may disagree, Draco is of the opinion that he's quite the man.

Regardless, the sensation of being lost has been plaguing him more and more often lately. He can't seem to shake it, no matter the alcohol content. Previously, he found salvation at the end of a whiskey bottle, but recently this hasn't been giving him the same relief. He wishes he could find joy in _something _in his life, because even his job has been leaving him unsatisfied over the past weeks.

His head connects the dots and points to the enigma that is Belle, but he can't fully get on board with that. Draco refuses to believe this could be a reason to his recent change. She doesn't matter to him, and never will, no matter how curious he is about her. She evades his thoughts more often now; he's glad for it.

Draco's been avoiding this visit to his mother's for quite some time now, nearly stretching to a fortnight, but the guilt eventually caught up with him and that's why he's waiting for her in the sitting room now. It's rare that they lounge in the sitting room, his mother favouring much more formal and sophisticated layouts for their social visits.

She enters the room with the same regal air she always has, holding her head high and posture perfect. Narcissa waves the elf off, telling him silently to leave, and takes a seat on the couch opposite him. Her stiffly straight back contrasts with the casual recline of the seat, making her look uncomfortable. Without a word to him, she takes her cup of tea – prepared by her elves – and sips it. After several minutes of this, she eyes him, "I see you do remember where we live and that I am, in fact, alive still."

"Always with the dramatics. Is it any wonder I turned out the way I did?" He grins slightly, eliciting a small softening in his mother.

"You turned out wonderfully, and don't let anyone tell you differently. Especially not that ex-wife of yours; she's nothing but trouble and a farce." Narcissa has never been quiet about her dislike for Astoria, something which used to make him awfully annoyed but now serves as great amusement.

"In any case," He starts, wanting to get to the point. "I'm here now. I'm sorry it took so long, but you know how my conversations with him usually go." Draco refrains from going into detail, knowing all too well how upset these facts can make his mother. She loves Lucius, maybe for reasons Draco can't fathom, but she does and Narcissa hates seeing her husband and son have such an abysmal relationship.

Draco can't remember the last time he genuinely enjoyed speaking with his father, or looked forward to seeing him. This thought inevitably makes him think about his own son; does he feel the same way? Does Scorpius think of him as little more than a nuisance; someone who deserves little of his attention? Perhaps even someone who has ruined him?

Narcissa, thankfully, draws him away from these troublesome ideas, "Unfortunately, I do know. However, you –" she hesitates, looking away. "You might be more comfortable with what I'm about to ask of you."

His curiosity piqued, Draco raises his brow, "Oh? I can't imagine what it could be, unless you want me to castrate him or something equally gruesome."

"Draco!" She admonishes, anger flashing across her demure features. He sits back obligingly, hating when his mother becomes like that. Granted, he may deserve it this time. "As your mother, I _command_ you to stop speaking like that."

"Mother, I'm a little old for—"

"Draco Malfoy."

"Yes." He sighs heavily, "I will stop making comments about gravely injuring your husband."

She lets his less than legit reply slide, and returns to sipping her tea leisurely. Narcissa and Lucius are both highly dramatic beings, and if anyone were to see that, they would understand immediately why Draco was such a nuisance as a child in that regard. Still to this day, he can't deny he doesn't have a flair for drama, too.

Brushing her blonde hair away from her face, after setting down the cup, Narcissa clears her throat. "I don't suppose you've read anything about your father, have you?"

"I can't say I have…" He's confused now, because isn't that a good thing?

"Nor I. That's why I can't understand.. Someone would have surely caught him by now, especially with the Ministry constantly checking up on us for dark magic and such. Yet, he's not my Lucius again," Her eyes are dreadfully sad, something Draco hates to see. He nods understandingly to her, urging her to continue. Her eyes meet his again, looking glassier than before, "He—he's like how he was back then. You know… _back then._"

Draco's eyes widen while his eyebrows take a visit to his hairline. It takes a minute more to process what his mother might be saying, then Draco opens his mouth. He has to construct his next words carefully, because while he doesn't want to set off his mother into tears, he has to know if she's accusing Lucius of what he thinks she is. "Mother, are—are you saying that you think he –"

"Yes, I think he's involved with the death eaters again," She interrupts him, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a rush. It's the most flustered he's seen his mother in a long time.

Draco's eyes drop, and an unwelcome sensation builds in his chest. Their family has just overcome the past mistakes, the darkness and baggage they had collected – now his father wants to haul all of this up again? Draco doesn't know if he'll be able to cope with the onslaught he experienced in his youth, and he was better able for it then. And his son, what of his son if Lucius is up to old tricks?

Anger rattles his bones. He welcomes the feeling because apathy has ruined him in the past, and stands a chance at doing it again now.

He grinds out, "How long have you suspected this?"

"A few months." She replies quietly, staring down at her hands.

He makes a sound of fury and impatience, then stands, "I'm going to think. I'll be back though, and I'll help you find out what's going on."

All his life, Draco's been kept at a secure distance from his parents - whether that was for physical safety, emotional safety or that they genuinely weren't expressive, it's a fact. He was never close to either of them, up until his teen years when his mother began to show maternal signs – she was a late bloomer. Ever since then, his relationship with his mother has grown stronger and today, he loves her more than anyone other than his son.

Even with this fact, they're still not as close as some mother and sons. He listens to her trivial stories, and she offers him comfort and advice in regards to work and women, but he never thought she probed deeper. Draco never thought his mother bothered to truly read him. He should have known better, of course, because she is married to Lucius Malfoy.

He only realises just how much she knows when she speaks next, "Don't drink too much. I wouldn't want my son to die by choking on his own vomit."

* * *

><p>Work isn't so mind-numbing as he had hoped, with countless memo's from Blaise and a seemingly never-ending stream of employees with inquires, Draco is constantly on his feet and thinking. He supposes that's good though, because as the doors to his office shut for the thousandth time, he's left alone to ponder his visit with his mother.<p>

Draco knows how hard it was for her to come to him for help. Besides the fact that Malfoy's detest having to ask for help, his mother knows how low his opinion of Lucius is already. This is bound to make it even worse, because Draco is aware – and so is she – that no good can from the scenario. Granted, Lucius might be up to nothing of the bad sort, but Draco has little faith in that. Also, his mother wouldn't have brought it up had she not been sure.

Twirling his pen between his fingers, Draco turns from his desk to gaze out upon the people below. They're all completely unaware of his gaze, so wrapped up in their own lives and busy schedules to feel his unwavering stare. Draco wishes he could be one of them; entirely in their own bubble, constantly occupied and always having something to do or someone to see.

It's nearing to home time, despite the fact that Draco only came in three hours ago. After his mothers, he had to have a drink to settle his emotions. He tells himself it's okay, that it was normal to want a drink after the bombshell.

Blaise breezes into his office without so much as a knock then, closing the door loudly behind him. Draco swings around to look at the man, suspicious of him already. He had ignored every one of Blaise's calls and perhaps that had been uncalled for, but Draco isn't in the mood to socialise. He tells his friend this with one stoic glance.

"Don't care how you're feeling, mate. I've been calling you all day, and your bloody secretary keeps diverting my calls. What the hell is up with that?" There's a mild anger to his tone that surprises Draco, but he waves it off.

"I'm not in the mood, Blaise. What do you want?"

Displeased, Blaise takes a second to respond. He decides on shedding his negative sentiments then and tells him, "You missed the international meeting this morning."

"I think it's an awful idea."

There's a mirthless laugh, "Do you? Well, maybe if you came to any of the meetings you would have more foundation to your beliefs."

"What are you on about?" He asks irritably, thoroughly sick of his friend.

"You missed the last three meetings regarding this topic. Are you choosing to skip them or are –" He pauses, leaning forward. Blaise sniffs three times before falling back into his chair. "Is that alcohol I smell?"

Draco sneers at him, "I'm none of your business."

"This _business_ is my business, Draco. If you aren't capable of handling it with me anymore, then I need to know and I need to take appropriate action."

The words stay with him long after Blaise leaves – and the ire doesn't go away easily, either.

* * *

><p>"The usual?" Draco nods, not bothering to feel perturbed by the familiarity the barman has with him. He's been here more often lately, and Draco maintains that it has nothing to do with Belle. He may have met her here for the first time, but he had enjoyed plenty of drinks here before that.<p>

As a cool glass of whiskey his placed in front of him, Draco's thoughts turn to the mounting emotions inside of him. There's some that are due to recent events, and others that are transpiring from how his life is. Most of all, he feels suffocated. Everything around him is weighing him down, all the factors, responsibilities and people in his life are pulling at him for entirely different directions and he doesn't know how much more he can take of it. That said, he doesn't know what he can do to relieve himself of it.

It's time to admit to himself that he deeply misses what he and Astoria used to be. It's time to reconcile himself with the problems Scorpius has. It's time to acknowledge that his job doesn't give him the satisfaction it used to.

It's finally time to say for definite that he irrevocably and with all his being _hates _his father.

Draco can safely attribute each and every one of his vices to his father, with little hesitation or consideration. He has a mountain of evidence behind him that is his life, and a good few repressed memories that the jury can see to truly witness the devastation. The only thing Lucius Malfoy sparred him of was sexual abuse, but he sure enough defended himself against the rest. The verbal and emotional slaps, the manipulation and deceit, the humiliation and ruin. He did nothing good for Draco except provide a wealthy standing in life and provide him with life.

Draco would have no qualms with him dying. He would have no tears at his grave, no flowers by his bedside, no reconciliation in his prayers - there would be no prayers even. Draco could only hope, for his mother's sake, that someday Lucius spares her by going quickly.

At this age, completely independent of his parents, Draco believed he could simply cut Lucius out of his life. This stunt now makes him think that that is impossible; you cannot choose your family. Albeit, Draco could let Lucius carry on with his antics and wait for the fall – but he can't take that fall again. He wouldn't withstand that hurdle once more.

He's going to follow Lucius, and he's not going to be lenient once he discovers what is going on. The Ministry, no matter how much he may despise them, is going to be fully clued in. His mother will have to settle for this, because at least Draco isn't plotting to kill.

Draining the last of the burning liquid, that doesn't burn half as much as the first time, he calls the barman over with a flick of his wrist. "Another, please." The please may surprise many, but Draco was brought up with manners, and though he can't always be polite and respectful to everyone all of the time, please and thank you are quite easy to rehash.

As the man, who he has many a time insulted, places the drink down, he quirks his brow, "You're lookin' more miserable than usual."

"Why, thank you. You sound more stupid than usual, given I thought we had an agreement not to speak of anything but alcohol."

He sighs, his moustache moving with the exhale. It's wiry and grey, something Draco knows he will never stand for, no matter what age. It truly resembles a rodent, especially the left side which is still prominently black. There's deep, wretched wrinkles engrained into his entire face, marring whatever youth he once had. His eyes are small and beady, and nearly black in colour. Despite these almost hostile features, he still manages to maintain and exude a friendly disposition. Draco should really take note.

Emptying the glass much slower this time, Draco takes a glance around the pub. It's quiet, but that isn't exactly shocking. His eyes roam the booths for something interesting, something to entertain him because his thoughts are only burdening him.

That's when he sees her. It's rather poetic actually, because the moment he realises who she is, she glances up and their eyes connect. Something strikes him about her that never has before, whether it was because he was otherwise occupied or always trying to figure her out, it escaped him before.

There, shining in the emerald green of her almond eyes, is the same look he receives everytime he looks in the mirror. _Loneliness._

* * *

><p>So, really, I should just copy and paste my AN's, because I'm constantly apologising. Even so, the month wait for an update deserves an apology! So, I am sorry for this very tardy update. I hope you enjoyed it, and I definitely hope I get the next one out faster! haha.. Thanks for reading, and please review :)

Disclaimer: Want to know what's not mine? HP or "Roll Away Your Stone" by Mumford&Sons.

CN.


	8. viii: I Wish You Were A Stranger

**viii: I Wish You Were A Stranger I Could Disengage.**

Their eyes engage for a moment later before hers flickers away, finding her lap a much more appealing sight. As he is about to resign himself to his drink again, Draco watches as Belle rises and approaches him with the swagger she seems to own at night. Her eyes, of course, tell an entirely different story. Draco has always heard of people being portrayed through their eyes, he's had the phrase used on himself several times – but he finds this woman the most accurate portrayal of that.

It saddens him in a twisted way because she tries so hard to project an image so far from what she really feels. Then again, Draco supposes it would be awfully presumptuous for him to ever pretend to know how she feels. He has to remind himself somewhat forcefully that he doesn't know her.

Nevertheless, Draco observes with guarded eyes and a hooded gaze as she makes strides towards him. She takes the seat next to him wordlessly, ordering her own scotch for the night. He doesn't miss that she puts it on his tab, and he raises a brow at her cheek, not to mention her audacity.

"Who are you?" He says bluntly, in a low drawl. "And what the hell does the night turn you into?"

The barman returns with her drink, and she stands to take it. Swishing the amber liquid around in the glass messily, she gives him a sad smile, "Don't you mean what drink does to me?" He doesn't respond, leaving her to raise her glass slightly as a gesture, "Thanks for the drink."

Draco fails to give her any reply, or even a physical reaction, so she returns to her table with the fresh drink and a new, darker reflection in her eyes. He stares at his drink as her words echo around his head, rebounding through his consciousness and drilling into his conscience mercilessly.

Mostly because the question everyone seems to be accusatorily pointing to him lately, is regarding what drink is doing to him.

The thought isn't enough. Sighing heavily, and wishing to forget the onerous thoughts for tonight (ever) he gets another drink. Draco doesn't think he's quite numb enough yet.

* * *

><p>He sometimes hates having to do his mother's dirty work; which, this time, entails snooping to reveal his father's dirty work. Feeling like he's fifteen again moving back and forth between the two authoritative figures in his life, Draco wonders why he still does this. He swore many years ago to cut off his father, to stop leaving himself at the mercy of his mother, but now he swears he has a masochistic streak in him that makes none of this possible.<p>

Draco hates that he reads like a psychiatrists dream – and he's sure he could have spent many thousands on trying to resolve these issues, but the thought of pouring out his darkest traces to a stranger makes his stomach physically churn. In any case, he's a firm believer that they would just tell him what he already knows. He's fucked-up. There is no other explanation plainer and simpler than that, and definitely none that would do him justice.

Sometimes, he thinks back to simpler times; when his family was just growing, and there was a sense of familiarity, comfort and security in the air. Now, he grapples for something real, for something that won't breed insecurity and discomfort. He could go further back in his life than that – to a time where insulting Harry Potter and his best friends was his sole goal from day to day life. Back before his father became more involved with You-Know-Who, back before Draco was dragged into the mess and long before he began to realise that his family foundation is based on superficiality, deceit and asininity.

"You had one job and you couldn't even do that right," A voice hisses disapprovingly, and Draco knows the tone well enough and has heard it enough times in his life to know he's in the right place. His mother had overheard Lucius' making plans to meet here, but Draco had been dubious of how reliable she is. He really shouldn't have, she's shrewder than she looks.

Careful not to be seen by the man he calls father, Draco quickly casts a disillusionment charm and comes to sit closer to the secretive and elusive booth in the corner of the bar. He can barely hear the conversation, and resolves to sit a little closer – and also to see the face of the man Lucius is planning the dark lord resurrection -or something equally stupid - with.

Moving quickly to sit directly beside, and in front, of them, Draco sees Lucius' company much clearer, and part of him regrets it. He lived half his life believing ignorance is bliss; couldn't he have done it for a little longer?

Closing his eyes and standing, Draco knows immediately what he has to do. It might not be what he wants, needs or should do, but for some reason, he knows it's the right thing. He finally has to put things right with his father, mother and his family. They deserved this.

Exiting the stereotypically seedy establishment his father had more than likely chose, Draco can't help but applaud his father for keeping up the surprises. He can hear the sardonic clapping in his mind; _you've really outdone yourself this time, father._

It may not be the dark lords resurrection, but in some ways, it's even more stupid.

* * *

><p>The walk to the bar is longer than he has ever remembered it being, but Draco easily puts the down to the fact that he's going with a purpose besides getting drunk tonight. Of course, he does plan on putting away a few glugs of his favourite poison, but he has other business to tend to that doesn't include drinking.<p>

A drink doesn't hurt though. He knows he shouldn't, that it's not right to mix business and pleasure – but honestly, he can't find it in him to care. He can't find him to care about much these days, and while a few weeks ago it scared him, now he embraces the dark and numb acquainted feelings.

He enters the pub with a renewed sense of self-loathing, especially upon realising that this dingy, trashy and downright filthy establishment has become his 'frequent'. He doesn't know when that happened, doesn't remotely want to think about why, but doesn't question it.

Ratface – AKA, the barman – pours him his drink without Draco even opening his mouth, which should further add to his self-loathing but only makes him silently remark on the convenience of having a frequented place.

Hours go by with the drinks as he sits alone, nursing the liquid like it was his lifeline to the world. It's more like his cut from the world. His intent in being here was to meet Belle, but for once it seems, she hasn't come. He's disappointed for more reasons than one, but brushes this under the table. He'll have to simply come here every night until he bumps into her again. Draco won't lie to himself – it's not like he wouldn't be here anyway.

It's only mildly disgusting now that he recognises the other lost souls that swallow their troubles with a bottle of gin here.

Draco downs his last drink as he's kicked out. Feeling considerably lighter and freer than hours earlier, he stumbles out of the pub with a renewed sense of revenge. Perhaps revenge isn't the expected sentiment that accompanies lightness, but Draco has always been different.

The moment he saw the man with his father earlier today, Draco recognised his face. It took him all of two seconds to pinpoint where he knew it from, because the day he met him is engrained into his mind so deeply Draco couldn't forget if he wanted.

All muscles, no brain is what he had assumed of the man. Even with that, one does not need brains to be malicious or indeed with bad intentions. Those blue eyes had been devoid of any emotion other than vindictiveness the night he met Belle, and he's positive that hasn't changed.

Still, it helps him piece things together. The reason Belle is always with him at the bar; the reason she lets his hand roam too far; the reason his father has been so shady, strange and dark again. It never occurred to Draco that his father's source of evil would come in a traditionally muggle form, but the man's hypocrisy knows no bounds.

He's read and heard enough about drugs to know it's a dangerous and thorny path. It terrorises the muggle underworld, drives teens and adults alike out of their minds and will be the hit with wizards as it is with muggles. His father will see to that.

That is, unless Draco stops it. That thought in mind, he bribes a local liquor shop to sell him two bottles of scotch, before returning to his office. Gulping it greedily, he briefly has the lucid thought of pushing his limits too far.

* * *

><p>AN: Hey there. So, I won't be surprised in the least if I gain zero reviews for this... IT's been too late since I updated. I plan on finishing this up pretty soon though, and so will update regardless of reviews. Sorry this is so short, but I hope to update again this weekend.

Disclaimer: HP ain't mine. Neither is "Over My Head" by the Fray.

Thanks for reading, and reviews would be nice :)

CN.


	9. ix: Every Form of Refuge Has Its Price

**ix: I guess every form of refuge has its price.**

_"I guess every form of refuge has its price._  
><em>And it breaks her heart, to think her love is only<em>  
><em>Given to a man with hands as cold as ice."<em>

Draco isn't fully sure how he came to be standing here, of all places on this earth, but he concedes that this might be the right thing to do. It's better that he didn't have this destination in his mind when he left work today; he would have chickened out. Now here, he knows that he has to go through with this.

As he stands in front of this beautiful house, a wave of nostalgia passes over him. It only serves to encourage him, the bittersweet memories dancing in his mind – so close, and yet, so far to touch. He's reminded of the springtime with the smell in the air; flowers, growth, _life_. It's unnerving how familiar he is with something so foreign now.

He can distantly hear the radio playing in the back garden, and follows the sound. Unsurprisingly, it leads him to a humming and happy Astoria, kneeling in the garden tending to her azaleas. Draco doesn't move for a moment, somehow transfixed by the lightness he can see in her, the absence of worry and strain. He hasn't seen that in a long time. Draco shakes his head, unwilling to think about their unhappiness, and clears his throat to make his presence known.

Astoria fails to hear him the first time, but after the second, she jumps up and turns. His presence is unexpected, that's for sure, but the disappointment that crosses her features briefly makes him wonder who she _was _expecting.

"Draco," surprise laces her tone as she takes a slow step towards him, "What are you doing here?"

After scanning the garden quietly, his eyes find hers again, "Can we talk?"

She blinks. "Of course… we talk quite frequently."

"I mean can we _talk._" He repeats, his gaze not meeting her own probing one this time. Draco can feel her come to stand beside him but he doesn't budge, even though her eyes are boring a hole into his defences. This doesn't work on him anymore. More than anything, he just wants the Astoria who was his friend once upon a time, who can lend him the hand that he refuses to ask for.

Astoria sighs heavily, evidently giving in, and gestures for him to walk inside. He takes the lead, only noticing her grimy clothing upon her wiping her hands on her trousers and realises she would have never done that previously. Doing the garden had been a job for 'the help', not someone like her. He only slightly grudgingly admits that the change suits her.

Taking a seat in the kitchen, she automatically begins making tea and coffee. Even though he doesn't particularly want a drink, he doesn't stop her. Eyes set on the cups, she questions quietly, "Why are you here, Draco?"

Her question makes him feel uncomfortable, and suddenly, Draco wishes he hadn't come here. Her tone is full of reproach and, at the same time, detachment. She couldn't care less if he jumped off the Mailini Enterprise building tomorrow or disappeared to be never seen again. Why should he expect more though? They're not together.

Despite this, his reason for coming here is solid, and he's not going to leave without what he wants. "I… I think you're the only one who can help me."

For the second time today, he catches her off guard and her expression gives it away. Masking it expertly, Astoria places a coffee in front of him and takes a sip of her tea, "I'm not sure what you mean." Before he can reply, she continues, "We've tied up the divorce. I'm sorry, Draco, but I can't give you anything… We can't backtrack on our agreements."

He holds up a hand to halt her, "I don't want anything material."

This, of course, is not taken how he intended and using the counter, she propels herself away from him, shock and ire crossing her features, "We are _finished, _Draco Malfoy. Don't you dare come here asking for some – some _compensation!_"

"Oh, stop being so dramatic. I certainly don't miss that," He tells her, swishing his coffee in the cup, "I want to talk about our son."

Finally willing to stop jumping to conclusions, Astoria only nods, letting him continue. "I don't know what I did to warrant this sort of anger from him. I'm not sure why he refuses to contact me or make any sort of effort…" His eyes rise to hers, "But I suspect you do."

She sits down across from her, a weariness overcoming her, "I wish I did. Scorpius keeps his cards close to his chest; I rarely get anything on substance out of him." They're both silent for a minute. Astoria begins hesitantly, her eyes downcast, "We—we really hurt him, Draco."

He's not sure what he can say to that. _Of course _they hurt him. The one big regret Draco has from the split is the pain it caused his son. As a parent, you try your best to protect your child from the world, to shield them from pain and hurt… being the cause of that pain and hurt is the cruel twist of fate; irony at its nastiest.

After another few moments, she speaks again, "He's getting better though. As much as I hate it, that girl seems to be doing him the world of good."

Draco knows how hard that is for her to admit, and in reward, gives her a small smile. He understands. "I think fixing whatever has gone wrong between Scorpius and I will help him, too. Being on bad terms with your parents is never easy… I should know."

Astoria nods, knowing all too well – of course she did – and takes another drink of her tea. "You want me to talk to him?"

"Well… I was thinking a step ahead of that, and maybe doing something a tad bit more proactive." She raises an eyebrow, signalling for him to share this with her, "I think you should set up a meeting between us. Tell him you're going to meet him, but I'll show up instead. It can be in Hogsmeade on their next weekend."

Draco knows his tone his earnest, his eyes pleading, but it doesn't faze him, where it would have usually disgusted him. He has to do this, and if persuading his material-hungry ex to help him is necessary, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

He lets silence reign over them again. Finally, he looks back at her to gauge a reaction, but doesn't quite find one. Astoria is intently studying her tea, her expression one that he rarely sees; pensive. It's not that she's not a thinker – it's just, well, she's actually not really.

Worry begins to claw at him, doubts threaten to overwhelm him – why on earth would Astoria care to help him, of all people? Had they not established enough times that they are not incompatible?

"Draco, you know, all I ever wanted was domestic bliss." She says to him, a serious quality lacing her words, "I never wanted us to become _this. _I—I just wanted us to be happy. It didn't work out that way, I'm aware now, but it doesn't mean that has changed." Astoria pauses, surveying him, "I still just want us to be happy. The three of us."

Draco fails to find the appropriate words, finding that none on his mind measure up. They haven't been so... so _nice _to each other in so long. He feels a sense of relief envelop him, a certain degree of closure that he hadn't been aware was missing. The utmost feeling is one that he isn't accustomed to, and will more than likely be fleeting.

"Of course I'll help you and Scorpius."

_Peace._

* * *

><p>Tonight, he's more invigorated than ever, and not even the damp smell in the air, the knowledge of his pitiful existence or the flickering lights can bring him down. He's not going to let this day go downhill, and by the time he leaves this bar, he'll be an inch closer to conquering one more of his remaining demons.<p>

Being in a better mood than he probably ever has been in this bar, he shoots the barman a rare and wry smile, "The usual there, ra—ahem… please…" Thinking to spare the servers feelings is a new one, he normally rejoices in the calling of 'ratface', but not tonight. He isn't going to engage in any pettiness tonight.

He'll later reflect sadly how this seems to be lost once _she _walks in the door. Around the same time, his drink is set down in front of him, but he knows that the barman is well aware of his 'tab'. Eyes transfixed onto the irritatingly mysterious woman, he allows himself a moment to observe her. By the exaggerated sway of her movements, he can safely assume she is already slightly intoxicated. Her dress is a deep purple, covering only one shoulder and wraps her body like a second skin. The purple highlights the strikingly pale tone of her skin, which is looking rather sickly tonight.

The other men don't seem to see this, and instead leer at her unabashedly. Mildly disgusted, Draco sneers at them – they're oblivious –before giving Belle a nod of recognition. The gesture catches her attention and he's surprised when a smile flits across her face, reminding him eerily of an innocent girl.

This is a woman. Capable of looking after herself and making her own stupid decisions.

Right now though, she's also a woman he's in need of. For this reason, he's glad when she approaches him, obviously to retrieve the customary drink he now buys her each time. "Tell me, is there a pattern to your visits here?" He asks, feigning disinterest as he does so.

She winks, "I guess you'll just have to find out."

"I rarely know what day it is, so I don't reckon that will be a viable option."

"I didn't say you had to figure it out yourself," She responds, enigmatic as ever, before ordering a scotch. For the first time, she sits down beside him and puts her bag down on the counter. With a glance to the usual booth she occupies, Draco notes that it's empty.

When the drink has been placed down, he turns to her, "Do you fancy sitting?" Her eyebrows rise in visible shock, but after a beat, she merely shrugs. He takes that as a yes and leads her to where she usually sits, figuring this to be the most comfortable place for her.

He only cares because he needs her connections.

However, Draco doesn't even get the opportunity to exercise this before she opens her mouth. "What do you want from me, Draco? I know you wouldn't sit with me willingly." With what starts as a weary question, ends with a somewhat self-depreciative statement. He arches on eyebrow in curiosity, before disregarding his previous mission and asking the question that has been burning him since day one.

"Which one of you is the mask?" They don't have to play games here; she knows exactly what he means. The almost imperceptible tilt of her head is enough indication that she is considering answering him. Draco doesn't know why, but this woman has always entranced him – and not like she does with other men in here. He's not after some quick shag in a dingy motel, he – for some unfathomable reason – wants to _know _her. There's an insatiable thirst for her story that, obviously, only she can cure for him.

He's still startled when she replies, "I think it's quite obvious when you really think about it." For the first time since they met, he notices her turning the band on her ring finger uncomfortably. How did he miss that before? Draco, who prides himself upon observational skills, among many other skills of course, missed the most telling part of her tale?

Against his better judgement, his eyes narrow, "Your husband is okay with you gallivanting around at night, getting yourself into _all sorts _of trouble?" His critical and mocking tone sickens even himself, and he almost immediately has the reflex to apologise. This is unlike him – which causes him to pause.

Belle ducks her hand away from view then, a sheepish look overcoming her, "I—I suppose he wouldn't."

"Who is he?" He hopes his disregard of the original question will serve as enough of an apology, and it seems it does, because she gives him the smallest of smiles.

She returns to the conversation then. Just like that, her smile vanishes, only to be replaced by a false sense of detachment and a very real ache in her words, "Do you know Bennet Devine?"

That certainly wouldn't have been his first guess. Draco stills, unable to move for fear of breaking their contact as he assesses her claim. He begins to convince himself that it isn't the Devine he knows; simply can't be the Devine that once made late calls to his house, serving the snivelling Death Eaters with fresh pieces of information on the Ministry.

Instead of voicing this, he asks carefully, "Do… do you mean the head of Magical Law Enforcement?" She nods, not giving him any more words, and he releases a heavy exhale. "What on earth are you doing with him?"

Not realising how out of line he is, Draco continues to look at her for an answer. As the seconds tick by, he almost now expects to be reprimanded; after all, what does he know of their relationship? To his utmost horror, however, he only sees her eyes begin to shine forebodingly. Eager to stop the inevitable onslaught of tears, he tries his hand at being empathetic. "Maybe I'm wrong, who am I to know if he's changed? Sure, I'm just bitter no one could or would ever prove his involvement in the war!"

Belle looks at him, with her voice raw from emotion, she declares, "I hate him." He doesn't think he's ever heard words spoken so sincerely. He's about to question her marriage to him, but stops himself, supposing that it wouldn't be easy to divorce a man like Devine. The epitome of Slytherin; he is cunning, sly and manipulative to the core. This only heightened by the curse of his intelligence, which would rival any Ravenclaw. Aligned most faithfully to the dark side for most of the war, as an auror he supplied valuable information to the Dark Lord. However, there is no record of this and Draco's father would never support him on the accusation, causing Draco's claims to look like a mockery and his rejection to the force was stamped more vigorously.

"I take it he's not so popular with you, either," She remarks, having evidently picked up on his tense body language and lack of speech.

"Are there many he _is _popular with?" Draco retorts wryly, earning him a short laugh from the woman beside him. He wants to ask how she ended up with someone so horrid, what he does to keep her with him and how on earth she escapes every night and leads this other life. He only asks the last question in the end.

"How does he not find out?"

Her laugh is humourless this time, "He doesn't care. I think he'd be happier if I overdosed, to be honest. He would be rid of me without any of the 'unpleasantness'." Draco gets the distinct impression the conversation has actually occurred between the two of them, making him briefly recall his other two questions. He supposes 'unpleasantness' is divorce, which would stain his name in his old opinion.

Something strikes Draco then. "Merlin, he must be _old _now!" More drinks are set down in front of them, and their empty ones taken away, which he's glad for. At least the barman knows his drinking habits at this stage.

Belle appears even more downcast at the mention of this, "He is."

"He's older than my father!"

"I would imagine…"

The mention of his father sobers him up considerably, sharply reminding him of his original task. No matter how disagreeable this may be to their night, he has to talk to her about Lucius. He has to get her help. "How do you know my father?" He asks her simply to start with.

The woman blinks at the swift change of topic, into something more serious for Draco. Instead of giving him a direct answer, because she never seems capable of that, Belle sighs, "You know how Lucius and I met."

"That's how you knew me – when I 'rescued' you."

"Yep. I threw that Lucius comment in to infuriate you, and, well, because they were your fathers drugs I had."

Draco's jaw is set stubbornly, the cogs in his head turning rapidly. "That's what I need your help with. I—I need you to help me bring him down, Belle."

He gives her some credit for not looking completely astonished, for not disagreeing with this mere acquaintance and ratting him out because instead, she nods determinedly. "I'll help you in whatever way you can."

Immediately, his Slytherin side creeps into the night, causing him to narrow his eyes once more at her, "Why?"

No one gives him help so willingly, so freely. She shrugs, "I like you, for whatever reason. I think this is the right thing to do."

"You do realise I'll have to bring forth all of your dealers names?"

This seems to register with her only then, and she pushes her drink away abruptly. Belle's hair falls across her face as she freezes in that position, not unlike himself earlier. Ever so slowly, she turns to look at him, irritation obvious, "What?"

"If I'm to cover all bases and ensure his arrest, then there has to be full proof."

She shakes her head rapidly, her whole body convulsing with the jerks. Grabbing her jacket and bag, Belle stands hurriedly and throws him one last glance, "I can't do that." He feels the wind brush against his face as the door to the pub is opened and closed once more, but this time, he's sitting alone in the booth. With the barman removing the glasses, all traces of her are removed again.

Except that lingering feeling in the pit of his stomach. It encourages him to flag down the bartender, demanding a row of glasses of his strongest stuff. This is going to be a long night.

His promises of that evening are just distant memories now.

* * *

><p>AN: I promised myself I wouldn't update tll I finished the story on my comp, but I just couldn't resist this one... Loved writing the chapter, so I can't wait to hear your opinions. I know her husband is, technically, an OC. I was going to make him a known dark character, but I wanted someone much older, and found Evan Rosier - _perfect _candidate. Except he's dead. Most of the viable ones were (or in Azkaban), and so, I made someone up. This way, I can still be canon.

Disclaimer: I do now own HP or "Lyin' Eyes" by the Eagles, which was originally my inspiration for this story. It's somewhat deviated since then, but still at the heart of it.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.

CN.


	10. x: I Don't Have To Stay This Way

**X: But I don't have to make this mistake, and I don't have to stay this way.**

He stumbles into work, feeling irrationally – or perhaps completely rationally – angry and morose. It's never a good combination, but in his state, Draco doesn't stop to think about that. There's a small voice, it sounds almost sober, in the back of his mind, shouting at him, but he has long learned how to drown out that little pest.

There's no one around this early in the morning usually, so he continues to his office. The lock keeps moving as he tries to put his key in, each time causing frustration to rise within him. Upon the fourth time, Draco throws his keys on the ground and draws out his wand. He swishes it dramatically, but right before he can utter a spell to blast the godforsaken door right off, a door behind him speaks.

Draco is so caught off guard he jumps up into the air, dropping the wand gracelessly onto the floor. It lies motionless next to his keys, the wand looking all the more fragile. He turns, disgruntled, to the interruption. He doesn't need to though; he knows that voice.

"Something the matter?" There's no trace of his usual warmth and humour, and he's wearing the most ridiculously stern expression that, quite frankly, makes Draco want to laugh – because this is _Blaise. _

It turns out he does let out a snort of laughter, because Blaise curses loudly, "Jesus, Draco! What the hell is wrong with you? You're piss drunk!"

"Nooo," He replies petulantly with a stubborn shake of his head. "I'm just a lil mrry." Draco hears his slurred words, but tries to mask it with a face of indifference.

"I don't think you're taking me seriously, Draco. You don't see me as an equal, and you never have. I'm just the comical sidekick – but you know what? You're going to be out on your ass, with _nothing _to your name. A family that hates you, no friends, no job and funnily enough, something that was your companion your whole life will be gone: _money. _" He can't even form a coherent response, just stands there numb after the verbal bitch slap. Even he wanted to, Draco's mind is too fuzzy and disjointed to even fully make a comeback to that. Blaise sighs, moving towards him, "Don't make me do this, Draco. Please, clean up your act."

He walks away then, leaving Draco alone in the empty foyer outside his office. Numbly, he opens the door to his office. What happens from there, no one would believe, as the heir to Lucius Malfoy's name falls down onto the floor, drawing his knees close to him and shakes violently with the force of his inescapable sobs.

He hates it; hates the weakness, the vulnerability and the lack of pride in the action. Above all this though, there's an overwhelming feeling that makes him cry even harder, and it's relief.

* * *

><p>It's two o'clock the next day when Draco is sitting at his desk, hours after his outburst, working quietly on a batch of claims from unsatisfied customers. He hesitates in the middle of a particularly nasty letter, glancing almost unwillingly over to Blaise's proposal. He doesn't quite know why he's so adamant against it; is it really such a bad idea? Blaise is right, if they don't take their business abroad, something with bigger wings will. Then again, as his hands touch the claims once more, he's reminded of their kinks and issues with the system. He's already suggested they bring in some muggle experts on the subject, perhaps muggles with knowledge of the wizarding world already. Some members of the board outright refused that, but Draco thinks it's inevitable that they eventually seek advice on this complicated subject.<p>

His phone rings, and Draco looks at it curiously for a second before picking it up, "Hello?" He figures it must be important if his secretary didn't even bother asking him if he wanted to take the call. He really needs to fire that man.

He can only hear very faint breathing on the other end, but just before he's about to hang up in exasperation, words come tumbling through, "D—Dad?"

Draco freezes. Dare he believe it? Is this really who he thinks it is? Surely, it's a cruel prank by an enemy, a set-up by Astoria… Surely, this isn't - "Dad, are you there? It's Scorpius.." He snorts derisively, "Obviously, I guess. Unless you've got a hidden family somewhere."

"I appreciate the humour, Scor." He begins tentatively, scared to death of chasing him away, "So, what's up?"

"Mum said I have to meet you in Hogsmeade today. Can you be here in a half hour?" There's a biting apathy in his tone that makes Draco flinch a bit, but he convinces himself that this is solely for the purpose of _making _him flinch.

"Of course I can, that would be great. I'll see you then, okay?"

"Bye." The dial tone sounds, but he still holds it to his ear for a while longer. It's loud and obtrusive to his thoughts, yet, it reminds him of the phone call he can't shake. In all honesty, he can't believe that Astoria actually did what he asked. He supposes the divorce poisoned their opinion of each other beyond recognition – when they had made the decision to split, there hadn't been half this amount of animosity.

It's so easily built though. So much so, that Draco eventually surrendered everything – their ongoing battle was hurting their son, and as much as he was loathe to admit, it hurt him, too. Draco always marveled at how two people who were so in love could become so disenfranchised with each other. How does that happen, anyway? Logically, he knows there are tons of answers – heck, he can easily list off some of the ones that caused his and Astoria's eventual split. Sometimes though, in the rare moments, he ignores logic and lets himself think of their giddy days.

It's stupid, it's redundant, but, by Merlin, it's one of the best times of his life.

He now has this wonderful opportunity to try _fix _him and Scorpius, to at least make the starting steps towards a solid relationship again. Draco doesn't think he'll be able to leave today without some measure of progress, because that would signify a degree of hopelessness. This is his chance.

He's not going to mess this up.

* * *

><p>"I'm kind of surprised you came," This is Scorpius' greeting as Draco slides into the booth across from him, straining to hear his sons voice over the bustle of The Three Broomsticks.<p>

Draco's affronted and slightly wounded, but he tries his best to deflect those feelings. "Why would you think I'd stand you up?" He's genuinely curious, too.

Scorpius, shrugs, his blond hair shaking a bit with the movement. It's cut like Draco's in his sixth year, which he wants to smile at, but he knows better. The boy has been told too many times of his likeness to his father, so despite his yearning to say it again, Draco holds it back. Scorpius sits straight in his seat, his eyes set directly on Draco. He doesn't shirk back. Draco's thankful for this, because his son is like him in that he can face his peers confrontation head on – but so unlike him in that he can do it to his father. He can't express how _happy _it makes him to know Scorpius isn't afraid of him.

"Well, you aren't really around much anymore."

"What? I'm around whenever you ask me to be.. Is that what this is all about, Scorpius?"

The boy 's gaze flickers downwards, vulnerability on his face for the first time, "I don't know."

He frowns, wondering if this is the route of all problems. Why doesn't he understand? Draco would be there day and night if he could, but he doesn't live with them anymore. His time is restricted to when they meet up, to when they make organized visits. There's no more casual dropping by and waking up in the morning to eggs and bacon. "I can't help that me and your Mum aren't together anymore. I—I wish… God, I wish you knew how hard this is for us. You are the _last _person in the whole world your Mother and I want to hurt." He tries to search out Scorpius' eyes, but it's more difficult than before, "But I know, in the end, we did."

"I… I always got the impression it's your fault."

"What? Where would you get that?" He tries not to be angry, to keep all the ire out of his voice, and he thinks he's succeeded.

Identical blue eyes stare down each other, but not threateningly. Scorpius fidgets with his glass of butterbeer, "I don't know. Mum was always crying… You were suddenly gone.."

"I was gone because the house belongs to Mum," Draco begins gently, "Not because I didn't want to be there. If I could, you bet I'd still live with you."

Suddenly, like a spark to a match, fury lights up Scorpius' face. "Then why _don't _you? You talk a big talk _Father,"_ He spits the word out like poison, which makes Draco recoil slightly. It reminds him of Lucius. "All this conversation of wanting to meet up, of wanting to spend more time together and keep close – when have you actually _tried? _Letters upon letters, but not once did you ask to meet up."

Draco sits solid, gaping at his son. He tries to grasp onto some words, but before he can give anything back, Scorpius continues on, only gaining momentum. He's incensed now; all this mounting resentment and anger pouring out rapidly, "You don't even live anywhere! How can I come and stay with you when you don't even have a _house ? _Don't pretend you're not drunk half the time anyway, I even tried to smell for alcohol when you sat down earlier! Do you have _any _concept of how hard that is?" His anger melts away, turning slowly into some akin to distress. Draco thinks he'd cry if they weren't in such a public place. He's glad now for the noise around them, meaning none of Scorpius' peers can overhear their discussion. Draco's uncomfortable, shocked and even a bit offended, but he can't help but be glad for the confessions. He finally knows what happened and why, he finally understands – and that's half the battle.

"Well?" Scorpius prompts, his voice wobbly, "What are you doing to say? Deny it all? Insist that's not the case? Go on, entertain me,"

"Don't take that tone with me, Scorpius. No matter what, I'm your Father. " He pauses, folding his hands in front of him to concentrate on something. "But I am so sorry. I'm not going to deny anything, Scorpius… You're right. You're utterly and completely right. I tried to be a good Father to you, but in the process, ended up being the opposite. I—I thought my private life wouldn't affect you, but that was stupid, because you are part of my private life.

"What can I do, Scorpius?"

To his credit, his son looks appropriately surprised, but shakes it off quickly, "Well… Well, you could stop drinking. Get somewhere to sleep at night, Dad. It's not rocket science. "

Without an ounce of uncertainty, Draco nods, "Consider it done. We'll organize days and nights for you to come stay with me.."

Scorpius gives him his first smile then, "I'd like that."

"Then it's settled. When you come home during the break, we'll set up some sort of schedule. You can decide whatever you want."

"Good." They're silent, both letting the words of the previous conversation settle around them, but Scorpius soon breaks it, "By the way, it wasn't Mum that made me meet you here – though she did have some very stern words for me – it was that last letter. About—about Rose. Even though I was angry, it was nice to know you approved."

"Unless she's awful to you, I'll approve, Scor," He thinks for a moment, "Or if she's a troll."

They laugh, and the sense of peace he felt with Astoria is doubled. This is what he needs to move forward.

* * *

><p>AN: Another long wait. I really am eager to finish this though, and it's one of my favourite pieces of written. I'm not sure why, but I hold this one dear to my heart. I suppose because, to me, it's all quite relatable. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you think :) Belle will be back next chapter also. Disclaimer: Do not own HP or "Winter" by Joshua Radin, from which the title is derived.

Thanks for reading,

CN.


	11. xi: Life Is Always Hard

**xi: Life Is Always Hard For the Belle of The Boulevard**

_Don't turn away_  
><em>Dry your eyes, dry your eyes<em>  
><em>Don't be afraid.<em>  
><em>Keep it all inside, all inside<em>  
><em>When you fall apart,<em>  
><em>Dry your eyes, dry your eyes.<em>  
><em>Life is always hard for the belle of the boulevard.<em>

_In all your silver rings_  
><em>And all your silken things<em>  
><em>That song you softly sing – is keeping you from breaking<em>  
><em>It's a long way down<em>  
><em>It's a long way<em>  
><em>Back here you never loved<em>  
><em>You've shaked the shivers off<em>  
><em>You take a drink to get your courage up<em>  
><em>Can you believe it<em>  
><em>Just this once<em>  
><em>Just for now<em>  
><em>And just like that<em>  
><em>It's over.<em>

It's been four days, six hours and twenty seven minutes – approximately – since his meeting with Scorpius when his phone rings. Intrusive to his thoughts and current work, Draco glares at it for a moment before sighing. His phone has been ringing non-stop lately, mostly on account of his newfound energy in the business. He's been in several meetings with Blaise, shareholders and muggles of interest regarding the promise of the company and possibilities abroad.

He's not above conceding that he had dismissed the idea too easily, made largely unfounded assumptions and worked from there. Now, he's ready to be the father he needs to be. He's going to be the father Scorpius needs him to be. That means repairing relationships, putting passion into his work again and finding his way a little. It's not easy, it's never been easy, but at least now he has something worth trying for.

The phone rings again. Putting his quill down with annoyance, Draco picks it up, "Draco Malfoy."

Silence. Seconds pass.

One..

…Two…

"D—Draco?"

Everything seems to still around him, any irritation evaporating as quick as happiness on a Monday morning. He thinks about his response carefully, but swiftly all the while, "Speaking. Can I help you with something?"

"It's me – it's Belle. I—I'm sorry about the other night, and I haven't been able to think about anything but you – _it _– as in the conversation, since you left. I was wrong, so wrong, but… but you have to understand how hard this is for me. You have to understand what this is."

Draco leans back in his chair, a ghost of a smile skirting across his face, "I'm glad you called. Business is my pleasure. You won't be mentioned or involved in any way, I just need your help with names and general information. Meet me at the bar tonight?"

He can almost hear her hesitate, but then she's promising to meet him there and promptly arranging the meeting for 10 p.m. The call is over before he can blink, and Draco holds it away from his ear for a minute, wondering if he had imagined the entire conversation.

Part of him had always believed she would come to him eventually, but there had been a very big part of him – the cynical side – which said he had to do this alone. He's not ashamed to say he's glad to be getting help, to have someone by his side in this. It's been so long since he felt like someone was on his side, and furthermore, since he felt like someone _understood. _

He thinks that's what has always attracted him to Belle. Whether it's true or not, he's always felt like she understood. In a world which has been so dark and solitary for him of late, seeing her made him realise he wasn't the only one feeling like that. Nor would he ever be.

Shaking these nonsensical thoughts out of his head, Draco recollects himself just in time to hear Blaise approach his door. Knocking has never been his forte, and so he strolls into Draco's office nonchalantly.

Taking a seat opposite the blond, Blaise raises a brow, "Monica tells me you're on board for the international proposal."

He rolls his eyes, tilting back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other, "She's so fond of talking, isn't she?"

Blaise grins, "I know. Tells me everything! So? Can I get some confirmation?"

"Well, since our meetings, I've been thinking about it really seriously…" Blaise leans forward in anticipation, causing Draco to almost laugh at him, "And I think it's got a lot of promise."

The other man makes a celebratory cheer, then turns his attention back to Draco, "I knew you'd come around to my brilliant ways eventually! It just took a bit of time. Too much, if you ask me, but you were never an easy person to deal with."

He doesn't reply. Of course, Blaise doesn't need him to, he blazes on with his tirade regardless, "Now, we just need someone to set up the offices abroad. We can hire someone internally or externally for that – we'll need to create a whole new team for this. One of us will need to head it, of course…"

Draco fails to reply again. Blaise continues.

* * *

><p>He's learned that Belle never fully confirms to schedule, never entirely sticks to script or the norm and he supposes it's the only freedom she gets. He can't imagine her husband is all that forgiving, understanding or relenting, which makes him more forgiving of her lack of punctuality. Lack of punctuality is usually a trait that causes Draco to quickly brand someone useless, but in this instance, he makes an exception.<p>

She strolls in in all her glory, twenty minutes late, and winks at the barman. They're on great terms, exchanging jokes and jibes as he retrieves her drink. It appears she orders one for him, too, because she carries back a second drink. Either that, or she's had a long day, Draco thinks wryly.

Belle fails to place the drink in front of him, and he shoots her a questioning glance. In response, she downs the first drink, and wipes at her mouth gracelessly. "Let's do this."

He nods, "I'm all business. In order to do this, I just need the name of the guy who was harassing you the first night we met. Do—do you remember that?" Part of him thinks he'll be disappointed if she doesn't, and the other part of him immediately criticises himself for that thought. Maybe he's the bipolar one between the two of them.

She draws back his attention with a small chuckle, "Of course I do. Not every day the moody and elusive Draco Malfoy saves you! In any case, his name is Tom Bowie. He's a squib, pretty bitter about the whole magic thing, destroys it from the inside with drugs. He's a bit short-sighted, you know."

He makes a small noise to indicate he's heard, but his mind is working in overdrive, "And my father?"

"Your father supplies the essential connections. Being a squib of a relatively little-known family, Bowie knows no one. Lucius sets up the meetings, sometimes conducts them entirely on his own. Some of us, the more lucid addicts, have theories that Lucius will kill Bowie and take over…"

The news doesn't surprise him, Lucius has never been hesitant about his kills. Not in Draco's memory at least – always swift, thoughtless and callous with human life. Whether it be death or close to, he was merciless. His own son could testify to that.

The best part of this whole fiasco was that Draco would be considered a rather credible witness – news of their disastrous relationship never broke. To the world, Draco and Lucius Malfoy got on fantastically. Narcissa always feared bad publicity, always fretted over their image after (and prior to) the war; she would never let on that they weren't in a state any less than blissful freedom. Of course, he had already blemished that with his divorce from Astoria..

"Draco? Draco, are you alright?" He shakes his head abruptly, eyes snapping to hers. He wonders if he's ever heard her say his name – it certainly _feels _like the first time. Draco's startled to find that he likes the way she says his name, with a lilting accent and a soft, sensuous intonation.

He doesn't even know what he means anymore. He's going insane.

"I'm fine.. Anyway, I haven't fully constructed my plan yet. I don't want any part in the physical takedown of my father, I only plan on presenting enough evidence to the Ministry that they can accuse him and eventually send him to Azkaban for it. He wouldn't deserve any less." The words are nonchalant, him appearing unaffected by the whole thing.

She's silent. Then, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"My father and I have a tumultuous relationship," He throws back after some hesitance, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"I can't say I do. I have an idea though – my parents won't speak to me because of my husband."

He's mildly surprised, but doesn't comment. It was rather foolish of him to assume so much about her – hell, she's out here most nights and caked out of her head on the other nights, she must be messed up. All her problems can't possibly be traced the husband, something had to lead her there. Right?

He doesn't necessarily care. They still understand each other.

"That's shitty." He replies honestly, uncharacteristically even.

"Yeah." He drains the last of his drink, finally noticing her attire as he does so. She dons her usual glam, a short purple dress, tight against her shapely figure and accentuating the curves she has. Her face is average, but her body is a solid eight, he thinks absently. It's not long after that he admonishes himself for these thoughts. She's a married drug addict, after all.

Impulsively, the next words rush out of his mouth, proving that the five "preparation" drinks had been unnecessary, "Why do you dress so provocatively all the time? For these cheap leers here?"

Belle's startled, surprised at his directness, and stumbles over her words. She draws her arms across her chest absently, and lowers her eyes, "I—I don't… I'm not…"

She trails off, looking back up to his eyes. He doesn't need her to say anymore, he doesn't need a further explanation. When he thinks about it, her very actions, words and posture every night are enough of an answer to him. There was never a need for the question.

"Do you need my help beyond this?"

"I think so. At least help me with a plan, and then we'll see if you're needed beyond that. You able for that?"

She tells him of course, and they begin brainstorming at once. He's surprised she has a semblance of intelligence, but then again, he's not really. He doesn't think about that though. Draco's overriding worry is whether he wants her to stay so they can plan, or so he can spend more time with her.

By the end of the night, he still hasn't decided.

* * *

><p>The following evening, the two sleuths carry out their intended plan. He's finding it easier to spend time in her presence without being irritated by the ditzy-ness, the insecurities and utter insanity. Overlooking those, she could be quite a normal and entertaining companion. He sometimes wonders why her husband doesn't value her.<p>

Currently, they wait in an abandoned shop on the south end of Knockturn Alley. It's notorious for being shady, but according to Belle, the drug market has got a stamp on this area. He finds it strange that it has all been going on so close to home, and so seamlessly. He feels like someone should have noticed. Sure, there had been more frequent reports of drug-like effects on people in newspaper, but it had always been understated. The media rarely understates anything – Draco hadn't bothered to question it.

Now, he curses himself for it. He could have saved himself a lot of time – then again, he's not an auror. They rejected him. _Because of this man. _Something inside of him screams this, sparking the required anger and maintaining the level of motivation required.

"I think I can hear them.." Belle whispers to him, wedged into the tattered couch next to him. The place is dilapidated, but very clearly in use. Couches are worn, but show recent tears and stains, and fresh newspapers litter the ground. Dust coats only the shelves that align the right wall, most of them empty, but some proudly displaying anything ranging from skulls to stuffed snakes.

He's beginning to see why some people consider Slytherin creepy.

The door is thrown open carelessly, causing it to clatter against the wall behind it, the sound reverberating throughout the room. Draco, under the guise of a polyjuice potion (ghastly thing), winces at the sound. He and Belle simultaneously stand, her taking one step in front of him to greet her dealer.

Tom Bowie stands tall, as menacing and threatening as the first night he met him, and blatantly sizes Draco up. He currently looks like his pest of an assistant, with curly, black hair and thick, angled eyebrows. Tall, but wiry, he appears no match for the other man.

"Tom, this is Jack… He's looking for some hard stuff. He's from Ireland, has had experience and knows the deal. He's a half-blood, too. He's seen the real muggle stuff…" she says this ever so quietly, away from Draco's ears, but he knows exactly what she is scripted to say.

"The real muggle stuff, eh?" He snorts, "Muggles are dumb. They think they know it all."

He refrains from pointing out that _of course they do – _they don't know wizards exist! Draco approaches him then, hand extended, "I don't see why I can't be polite. I'm Jack, and I want to keep a little deal going on between us."

Just then, the answers to Draco's plans walks through the door. Cliché to the core, his long, black cloak billows around him and his face is fixed in a snotty sneer. Long, tatty blond hair hangs on either side of his taunt and pale face, leaving Draco to wonder how long it has been since they saw each other.

While he's glad the man is here, Draco feels an odd pang of remorse. This is his father, and he looks positively wretched. He's been on the drugs himself, obviously. What's he been through? How did he get into this? His glorious hair that he was so proud of is drained of life, his skin that he took such immaculate care of is aged and cracked. His posture and expression is as pompous as always, but there's no spirit to this man. There's no fire, no passion – and Draco knows for a fact now that he _is _still capable of these emotions, still a functioning human being.

This person – this person isn't his father. This person isn't the man who made his life hell, who never once apologised and generally was an asshole to him. This person is so detached from reality, from life and what it was, that Draco can't connect them.

"Heavens sake, Bowie, you stupid oaf." Lucius abruptly flicks his wand over Draco, searching for signs of a beauty spell. Finding none, he rolls his eyes, "Oh, I forgot, you're a squib and need me for these things. How you managed to run this for so long is beyond me."

Tom growls a little, raising his fist. He thinks better of it then, and clears his throat, "Belle brought him in. Says he's a long-term banker."

Lucius' gaze falls on the woman, leering unabashedly. Draco suddenly feels alarmingly uncomfortable as he fights the feeling that they've shared a bed. "Is that true, Belle, dear?"

"Back off, Malfoy. This one is mine." Tom snaps, pulling Belle to his side roughly. She obliges silently, and he wonders if this is what her life is like – one dominating, rough man to the next.

Relief floods him upon realisation that his father and Belle have yet to have intimate exchanges. The feeling his fleeting, because then his father is staring him down intently. Before he says anything though, Tom is hit with some sort of hex that has been moaning in pain for a few moments. He'd been vaguely aware his father could perform silent magic, but not to that extent.

He spits at the bigger man, "I don't know who Malfoy is."

Finally, she finds her voice, "Lucius?"

"What?" He snaps, but then his voice softens, "Can I do something for you, Belle? Maybe something that Tom can't perform very well? Besides magic, of course."

"I—I just want you to sort out my friend… for now." The implication is clear, and the other man reacts with a smirk. In reality, as soon as he gets rid of Tom, he'll take Belle regardless of her stance on it or in society.

From there, the exchange is rather uneventful. Truth be told, he remembers very little; everything becomes a blur. His thoughts are unfocused, flying from Belle, to Tom, to his father. He can't stop analysing this new character, comparing him to the one he knew and coming to conclusions. No one can deny that Lucius has lost a few cents in the last few years, but now – now he wonders if the man will even go to Azkaban.

Would his suicide or arrest kill his mother, Narcissa?

Draco decides that he will let the Ministry decide his fate again. He'll give them the drugs he bought, the muggle tape with Lucius answering to his name and Tom mentioning his surname – and he'll hope it's enough.

He'll walk away and clean his hands. Does it make him feel better? Has revenge been dealt? Is he vindicated?

Draco expects all this. In the end, he only feels tired. Empty and tired.

But for the first time since he met with Scorpius, he kept his final promise: Draco slept in a hotel, in a real bed, and he hasn't slept better in three years. He knows what he needs to do now.

* * *

><p>AN: Second-last chapter, will update tomorrow. I know there are a lot of questions, etc which I will address at the end :) The song the start is by "Dashboard Confessional" and is a great one. The title of the song comes from it, and a lot of Belle's character is based on it. Anyway, ergo, I do not own it .. or HP.

I hope you enjoyed that. Reviews would be great!  
>Cheers,<p>

CN.


	12. xii: LIFEGOESON

**xii: ****L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N**

_L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N,  
>You've got more than money and sense, my friend,<br>You've got heart and you're going your own way.  
>L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N,<br>What you don't have now will come back again._

Draco rarely undertakes decisions lightly. He's an analytical, logical and thorough person – he likes to think he's a Slytherin with a bit more logic, and a little less evil. This decision though, as life-changing as it is, is something that he thinks he's been building up to daily.

He tried fighting it, tried running from it, and even denied it for a while. He's been deeply unhappy. He's been an alcoholic. He's been neglectant. The problem with this knowledge is also knowing that there is nothing that can change him here.

Draco's son, Scorpius, would be enough and more – but with school, a girlfriend and his own life, Scorpius isn't at home all the time, and he doesn't even live with him.

The inescapable fact of his life is that it's over. This life, the life that he's built for himself since after the war, the one that he's held onto with the grip of a dying trend, has come to a close. For himself, and for the people he cares about, Draco has to move on. That isn't to say he leaves everyone behind – they're wizards. Apparition, floo networks and mail can make it like he never left. His son can apparate, his mother can floo in, Blaise will be there constantly he's sure.

After all, this move is mostly down to Blaise. As loathe as he is to admit, the man had been right all along, and maybe even right about Draco. This is the perfect opportunity for Draco. This is the challenge he's been missing since his youth, since he was building Malini Enterprises from the ground up as critics said their ideas were ridiculous.

Critics are saying this idea is ridiculous and he – he, Draco Malfoy – can prove them wrong again. It's time to go back to basics. That's why he stands in his hotel room of the last three months, throwing his few, cherished belongings into a pristine, new suitcase and whistles an upbeat tune.

He's moving to France. This is where his heritage lies, where his name originates and his mother tells great tales of. Draco's always fit in there, if one is to believe the stereotype. There's no more need to sit in his memories and drink away in the shadows. Malini Enterprises France is going to take off, and he's going to be at the helm of it. While Blaise remains in the UK with his pregnant wife, Draco will be making a new life.

He's excited – a feeling it takes him a while to recognise. He doesn't think he's been this excited since Scorpius did his OWLs, which says a lot. There's a new range of positive emotions running through him, leaving him feeling almost high with the sensation.

However, even with all this, there's this one thing that won't leave him. This one person who helped him more than he ever realised – until now. She understood him when she didn't know, she listened when she didn't have to and helped him when there was no need.

Draco thinks he owes more of his life to Belle than she does to him, heroic rescues be damned.

Leaving, starting this new, wonderful life seems almost cowardly – almost _mean_ in the face of all that. It's no secret to anyone that Draco Malfoy has never been afraid of being mean. Actually, one could say that he rather enjoyed making crass and cruel comments. For some reason, it doesn't sit comfortably with him this time.

Yes, he's creating something new. Yes, he's moving to greener pastures – but shouldn't she be, too? Hasn't she been as lost and lonely as he, craving a new start just as much, but just as unknowingly?

Doesn't she, after all the heartache and extortion, deserve this as much as he?

Banging down her door with dramatics only seen in a Shakespeare play, Draco calls out her name repeatedly. He's not frantic, nor aggressive, but his flight leaves in five hours and he rather she had some notice.

_This is ridiculous and stupid. _

Words echo through his mind, berating him repeatedly for the unthinking actions he's carrying out. Just as he has nearly convinced himself to leave, the door is wrenched open. Greeting him in all his austere glory, Bennett Devine glares at him through narrowed eyes. "Malfoy." He greets flatly, "What do you want? I'm not lending your father a hand this time, so you can ju—"

Draco holds his hand out, abruptly cutting him off, and places it on the door to prevent Bennett from shutting it in his face. "I want to speak to Belle."

He stares at him, eyebrows raised half an inch now. They're plucked, thin eyebrows that are still a rich black despite his age. The hair on his head fairs the same, showing no signs of grey or thinning out, but Draco strongly suspects that beauty charms lend a hand here. His dressing gown strains to tie over the weight he has put on around the middle since Draco last saw him, but he's by no means fat.

He still wonders how Belle manages to lie in bed next to him every night.

As if by magic, he hears her voice then, "D—Draco? What on earth are you doing here?" She's standing behind her husband, surprise written all over her face.

"I.." He feels very foolish then. The temptation to simply say goodbye is strong, but with one more glance at the pathetic man at the door, then the lost woman standing behind him, Draco's conviction returns to him.

"I'm taking the business abroad."

"Oh, that's great! I hope you have a wond—"

"Come with me." He's pushed past Bennett then, who watches them with guarded eyes, and takes three strides over to Belle. Draco expects a hex, or even an arrest, from the older man any minute, but as the seconds pass, none comes.

"I—I can't," Her eyes are fearful, desperate for him to leave. They flicker to her husband, apologetic and worried.

"Forget about him. Forget about everything. Start something new, somewhere new – where no one knows your name, your legacy and you can be whoever you want to be. You know I can't do it alone – and I know you can't either." She's still quiet. "If you don't leave now, you never will."

"You can go now." Bennett announces coldly, "I've let this go on long enough. Belle will never leave. But you can, right now." He withdraws his wand, and Draco holds up his hands defensively. Slowly, he takes steps backwards towards the door again.

His eyes remain on Belle, hoping against reason that she listens to herself. "Don't do this to yourself."

Tears spill from her eyes, and it strikes him that he's never seen her cry before. "I love him, Draco." The words sound empty to even him. They're shaken by the tremor in her voice, in the rush of water from her lids and the tremble of her lip.

"I don't love you, and you don't love me. But this isn't love either, Belle. You know this can't be _it."_

"Belle doesn't need love. She needs money and social standing, the latter of which the Malfoy name has long lost. My wife belongs to me, and it isn't negotiable. Belle, go make yourself presentable for dinner. I'll call the elves and get rid of the Malfoy." The emotions passing across his face barely flicker in the face of his words, and his eyes stare down Draco with no fear or worry.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I—I said no. I'm not being your doll anymore. I'm… I'm worth _more._"

Bennett looks at her, standing proudly, chin raised and eyes steeled, and promptly laughs uproariously, "Oh – oh this is _precious. _You think the Malfoy cares, don't you? Oh, Belle, don't be ridiculous. The scum of those bars you parade yourself around to as a whore only want you_ because you're a whore._ And you think he's any different? Of course he isn't. I am the only one who will take you more than once, Belle. No one else believes you're worth that," He spares Draco a fleeting glance, "Least of all him."

Her resolve weakens visibly, and Draco intervenes quickly, "Don't listen to him. You saw me the first time we met, more specifically the next morning – I'm not heroic, I don't make sweeping gestures, I don't put myself on the line for others and I certainly don't _care_ for anyone other than blood. Yet, here I am. Are you going to believe that, or the man who has given you _money_ and 'social standing', but taken nearly everything else?"

Bennett withdraws his wand and points it at Draco, an incantation on his lips, when Belle grabs him and pushes them both out the door. Following her train of thought, he apparates them away from the scene as quickly as he can.

Heaving heavily, while feeling around for the woman he departed with, Draco wills his heart rate to slow. "Where—where are we?" He hears a hoarse voice from beside him.

Opening his eyes, Draco curses loudly, "Oh, Jesus Christ, not again…"

"_Draco Malfoy! _I thought we were past this! Is this another—another one of your _sluts?_ How dare you! To think I thought…"

He tunes her out then and smiles at Belle. She doesn't seem perturbed by his ex-wife's rants, or by anything else in that moment. Standing in front of his glorious mansion, the dull clouds dotted in the sky above them, he nods to her.

They're not in love, they're not together and they've no plan to be – but they've got _something. _And it's more than either of them have had in a long time.

* * *

><p>AN: Aaaand, it's over. I'd like to sincerely thank xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, yellow 14 and silverbirch for your consistent reviews. This is a story that, in hindsight, I wrote in retrospect of some of the things I saw happening to people going on around me - without even noticing. It's a story that I wish had garnered more attention, more readers, but I'm really very thankful that I had the three of you and your great feedback throughout the 13 chapters. It may not be my best in terms of the writing, but it's definitely one of the favourite pieces I've written.

I'm sorry the ending is so rushed, I'm aware it lets down the start of the story, but I needed it to end. I had planned for this chapter to go like this from the start, but in hindsight, maybe I should have put more into the Draco/Belle situation beforehand. That's the problem with planning your last chapter!

Though it's not the centre of this story, I'm not going to change the story.. because I think it spans over a lot.

New reviewers are of course welcomed and encouraged!

btw, the song L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N is by Noah and the Whale, I do not own it, as much as I may want to. Don't own HP either!

Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it.

CN.

AKA, Rae.


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